So here I stand, with an analogy of a gun pointed at my head. Society's little finger is pulling on the trigger, trying to threaten me, but I'll do exactly what's expected. Who cares if it's right or it's wrong? I've gotta write a love song. I look at the pictures, yellowed with the age of the women I've enraged. They've gone and changed now; married citizens or became lesbians, and the jailer from the invisible cell reminds me I've a job to be done. I've gotta write a love song. Don't point that finger at me. Don't use that tone of voice. You never seem to think that I should have a choice. I admit I've adored love; I've met all their folks, and I've laughed at all their jokes. But that doesn't mean that I have to give in to this idiotic whim, but I'll do exactly what's expected. Who cares if it's right or it's wrong? I've gotta write a love song.
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