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The Fuel

Not yet, Mrs. Robinson

The scent of sour chamomile

His body close to mine

Nobody cares if he cries

He is the janitor at work

Brown curls and square glasses

I wish to bond


He pulls trash bins

Dirt on his taupe skin

Strong and calm, silent type

No complaints, not a sissy

Troubles he keeps to himself

I want to reach his heart


Mysteriously spicy to me

He sweats alone, cries alone

His radio tunes to hip hop

According to his moods

Wears his jeans straight

I wish I was 21 again


Some say he's a pastor son

Some say he's a single Dad

I know he deserves good

His success means the world

I stay afar, more comfortable

Be careful, Mrs. Robinson







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