Come back down to Earth (where you'll still smell like swiss cheese)
Come visit the folks who don't know (that they don't need you)
You'll look like Mother Theresa when you visit those souls.
A look goes far for the hearts of hungry homes.
I can picture you leaning into the fridge every ten minutes;
to skillfully peel away slices of swiss with your pocketknife.
It's no wonder it leaks out your pores
like mastication never happened.
Spray on 'smelly-stuff' like it covers sins! Your ways will never bandage you up!
Your head is smelly and your heart is stuffed with swiss – it's your swiss love.
Shame for words has no appeal, your soul only longs for cheese. Reality is not like cheese.
Come back down to Earth (where you'll still smell like swiss cheese)
Come visit the folks who don't know (that they don't need you)
You'll consume the souls as if they were the cheese.
Oh, you are so presumptuous. You are who you've been.
You're accustomed to cheese every day; and it has become a habit.
It's so weird – about the holes. Most other types don't have them – just swiss.
That's why you like it:
it reminds you of you.
Don't you bring me stuff that has been made to smell like you.
Each time you take a bite it makes another hole in your heart that must be filled with something other than the swiss cheese; "You are what you eat!"
Hope was lost years ago when you left us, when mom fired you. Reality is not like cheese.
