You may call me Alice if you'll be my Mad Hatter.
I'll trip down the rabbit hole and find your table.
We can drink tea together and talk about forever as if we remembered it quite well.

Don't call me Ali, and don't be my boyfriend.
I don't want to walk over to your house and find your coach.
I'm sick of hearing all about you and your “career” as you stuff your face with ­takeout.

You may call me Alice if you'll be my Mad Hatter.
I'll laugh at all your jokes and try and solve your unsolvable riddles.
Because I know that “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” isn't the only one in your head.

Don't call me Ali, and please don't be my boyfriend.
Your dirty jokes aren't funny, especially when they're at my expense.
You're transparent, I know that this shallow image of you is as deep as you'll ever be.

You may call me Alice if you'll be my Mad Hatter.
You may craft hats of such brilliancy they will be ludicrous.
I will let you place them gently on my head and arrange my hair around them.

Don't call me Ali, and please, please don't be my boyfriend.
You are the most unromantic creature I have ever met.
I have never in my life wanted perfect or unfeeling but you may not touch me, so stop trying.

Call me Alice if you'll be my Mad Hatter.
We can dance in the rain of wonderland, and twirls under the blistering rays.
And when we get tired I will sit on the arm of your chair and lean my head against your shoulder.

Don't call me Ali, and please, please, please don't be my boyfriend.
Football practice and the coach are not the only places in the world to relax, you know.
And I don't mean I want to go to one of those parties where you'll try and drag me into some room for some “action.”

Please, please, please, please call me Alice!