Fuck you and John Wayne Airport and “God’s house”
He never would lived there anyway

Can I tell myself in this shadow that
There in this Cupid's paegent 
There lies no monster?

“There is no tiger”
Is a great tattoo and I'm glad it works
For you who isn't quite as delicious 

I tell myself I'm being too precious 
And on the days that wrap themselves 
In the pink cashmere warmth of the other 
I can almost tell myself that 
there is nothing monstrous neither.

In the hearts of those next to me
In those tables of numbers I hope to climb
Nor in those little boxes I help decorate

And the the thing is I honestly like the floor tiles
And the little shops 
And many other things at this airport
And even some of those people 
From the house on the hill

And if I could just pull this one temple down
And pull something else up
Then maybe I could rise
And I would have children to tell sweet lies
And be the house I needed