A woman with a mind as sharp as mine
could surely never stoop to domestic dreams.
In my ever-upward climb I’ve had to hide
a secret heart that’s softer than it seems,
a shameful heart that shuns what it believes.
My heart, beneath the rocks and fists and stink,
always reaches for the same repulsive things:
apple pie and babies, and I’m disinclined to think
I’m so sharp at all to want what home life brings,
if I’m so quick to want to wear those apron strings.
‘Cause I am not a one to be that careful,
not so loving or so patient or so kind,
and I can’t help but to feel extremely fearful
that in no time I’ll have blown it to the sky,
that we’d end up eating the baby in the pie.