What's that you say, my sweet cuddlebun?  That I fail to try hard enough to sleep?  To pick up a goddamn book?  Do not tell me what to do, woman.  I want you to cook me rice that comes from a burlap sack that I have carried home.  My voice is authoritative, and strong. Reading is boring.  I may as well brew a pot of coffee with it.  I want to bunk with you, woman.  Do not use a man's name in vain, a man's name in vain, name in vain. Your tone sways upon recklessness, thereby undermining any future resolute affirmations you may thrust upon me.  That is the indisputable fact for us all, and women who curse are no longer—Come away with me and let us swim in some kind of body of water. I want to live in a room with you, or in your home, rent free. My love is near the cost of most silk.  I dream of smelling your body wash, then perhaps applying it to my own skin.  I am a simple man; and I am a comfortable man. I can say "I love you" to other men, even if I don't really mean it. I do not mind womens' bodywash.