You don't know what you deserve,
So you take anything that's served your way,
At any given time of day,
By anyone willing to play.
But it's never any good,
As bad as rotting fruit,
With a sweet smell that distracts you,
As it knew it could.
But he's hiding so you settle for cheap imitations
And all their limitations,
Wherever you find them,
And there everywhere if you turn blind enough.
Just don't mistake it for love.