While workin' on polishin' a few love songs,
I got a little curious, and then a little delirious,
so I looked you up, baby, in the Book of Wrongs.
Turned out, you were plastered all over the place,
your name, your stats and victims, even your face;
I thought I had turned wrong, to the wrong place.
But there you were, baby, in all your vainglory,
and for each entry, the same sad story,
love extended, a heart distended, no allegory.
And I thought this must be some big mistake,
you weren't the kind to never give, only take,
so I figured the Book of Wrongs was just a fake.
It took quite a long while, goin' down that road,
for me to finally realize I had been snowed,
and that your wrongs were a very heavy load.
I found out too late that the stories were real,
that out there, along the way, you forgot how to feel,
and love became something that you could steal.
I wish I had just stayed workin' on those songs,
clueless that you were nefarious and injurious,
and that you actually wrote the Book of Wrongs.
February 6, 2009.
Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.