Buttercup Surfaces

I haunt mansions of Edgar Allen Poe romances
Not through alleys of Internet porn
or free iPhone ads
Running through meadows of CDs, instead of
Rotten flowers, aren’t their ugly reminders
Just lovely?
I can stand on my toes
And sing high notes from hell
But whatever puts a smile on my face, wreaking havoc
On the darkest conducts available in the
Doctor’s office
Their eyes reveal exhaustion through those
Woe-is-you expressions
Whatever makes you smile, buttercup
Cherry blossoms
Sakura
Decorate the dustiest corners of my antique affect
And the windows of our souls have been oiled
With toothpaste, oh so clean
They’ve been cleansed, my dear
Whatever makes you smile, buttercup