"I like to wake her up, when she's had too much to drink,
or, when she's just too tired to know what's going on."
"I like to ask her, things, like..."
"What color do you want your bike, painted?"
"Can I paint it, stripey... like a bee?"
"Yesss..." She'll answer, sleepily.
"Like a soft, fuzzy, bee?"
"Yesss..." She'll answer... "Like a soffft, fuzzzy beee..."
"I think, that may be categorized, as torture." I say.
That's when every man, in the room, looks my way,
and say, almost, in angry unison, something...
about how I don't understand men, at all.
But, I do understand men.
And, I understand why all the loved and tortured girls'
bikes, are striped, and painted fuzzy...