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The Bodyguard and the Hula Girl He’s my boy toy And I’m his hula girl. He’s Mister Bodyguard And I’m a kitten’s breath away From falling hard. Or maybe just falling Into the abyss And selfishly using his bright smile and kiss As a breathing apparatus. Am I toying with this boy’s heart? I don’t mean to do it, if I am, Honestly. But, yeah, probably, I am. Because it comes so naturally to me To tease and please, so damned easily That I might not even know it If indeed I’m performing Or otherwise committing a sin or misdeed. Is this a yarn I’m spinning Or a true story with a perfect beginning? If this is a dream, then don’t wake me from it, Please. And if it’s more than that, If it’s genuine reality, Then teach me how to believe it, To know for certain when a romance goes From ephemeral to irrevocable, Fictional to factual, When a fairytale becomes dependable and actual, Rather than merely hormonal and situational. Yes, I’ve been playing with my boy toy, I’m sure of it now, All the while praying I don’t break him Or make him hate me Or leave me, Or, God forbid, go back to Daphne. That bitch. But is she really more of a bitch than me? Because I’ve been playing with my boy toy Shamelessly, All the while closing my eyes and praying That when he finds out The Package Ain’t what she’s cracked up to be He’ll still somehow, miraculously, Inexplicably... For reasons that will surely escape me... Reject the fate of poor Kevin and Whitney And decide to stay with me, His fucked-up hula girl, His koala in a eucalyptus tree, His clingy baby monkey. And by “stay,” by the way, I mean to say not just for a tour, But until a far-away day... As far away as... Maybe... Dare I say it... At the risk of sounding silly or naïve Or even flat-out crazy... An eternity?
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