Must we all be actors? Hiding our true selves, In those shady backstage places?
A little symbol of truth is all that I can give you, love For the lines of this play, Allow me no more
A green carnation, Hidden in the lapel of my jacket, As I kiss the lips of the love interest the writer gave me
A portrait of you, Hidden amongst a painting of young boys, Playfully drinking and pissing in wine, Carefully reaches you under watchful eyes.
A secret code, stitched into the binding, Of this worn out play, Lays me bare, For you