I like John Lennon's glasses too.
I bought them at a thrift store in some misty part of Houston.
It was called the Leopard Lounge, and everyone spoke in lisps.
World red, blood red. I tried to save him, but I dropped them,
lost them in the lake.

Dubbing itself the north, this was the deep south,
and lurking behind his odd charm was something off.
He gave me the tingles, yet nothing was odd.
Odd valley, odd valley.
A girl with eyes in the center of her heart, finding ones that spoke not their tongue (my blood boiled, my blood boiled).
At last, praised with a fraction of what she deserved, she sought them all.
She knew not what she was worth, her porcelain tears
spoke a thousand words.
Cold valley, I was cold.

The appearance of an architect, skewed lips, an oddly familiar face.
Yet it was the friend I found, one was mad and the other unreal.
She made me laugh like I hadn't since a child, where the sound simply left my stomach through soft snow fluff, snowboarding out after bingeing Brooklyn-99.
She kept listening to me, and I thought, she must be mad.
And then there was the gazelle of Batsheba, he was unreal.
Pranced into the world, jumped up, jumped down. I, of course, didn't see; I had no face.
A smile, a notice, his teeth pranced me up and woke me up.
He threw his string, it caught my skin, upon my skull he unfolded it. He said there was a cloud, he said there were others, he said that I was loved.

Without eyes, I unveiled blubber, unveiled blubber.
And now for my sight.
My grip loose, I lost my shades, I slipped.
Deep inside the lake, I found floating many eyes. Blindly feeling with my new skin, some fingers placed them in my face,
one, by one, by one, by one.
My nails red, the Fab Four blasted, someone new, someone new.

The psychopath was unveiled, and the hill would fall.
My nails made a slice above my chin by force, pulled out creaks and croaks from my throat.
And that is how I got my face.
Not found, but made.

I'm no longer cold, but I feel beetles crawling up my legs.
As I enter the grand terrace of my geometrical class, I say,
"Here comes the sun, do-(it)-do-(it)-do-(it)-do-(it)."
But little darkling, my mind is with the old fisher of Binghamton.
On his wheelchair, he found me interesting, said he'd like lunch.
This man, he loved life, and when I look up,
my hands shake, their eyes too bright. But if I look up,
their hands reach and, in their eyes—an effervescent preach.
Beautiful valley,
beautiful valley.

I see you like John Lennon's glasses too.
Here you go, they were yours.