“Write a song about me,” tell him. “Write a song about my eyes. About how you only want to see what they see. It should be about my skin too and about a question I asked you that made you afraid. You should address my ass but make it vague, but not so vague that people won’t know you’re talking about my ass. Remember the dress I wore to brunch two weeks ago. The song should include a verse about how the dress made you feel. We’ve never talked about spirituality, and I’m not spiritual but I’d like you to be just for the sake of this one verse in the song where we sing the words of the ancients or some shit which is another way of saying we come at the same time. Other topics that need to be addressed include my hair, my brown boots with the laces, your car, my pussy, and my bedroom window. No rain, no politics.”
He’ll get it all down, put it to a catchy beat and play it for you.
“It’s called ‘Mop Up That Booty (With A Dishrag),’” he’ll say.
You love it already.
Happy He’s A Musician Day!
