Indiana, I love you, I love you too much
to be just seven years old.
As you’re sliding through thieves in the pit of my guts
to slip into my box of gold.
In the Temple scene when you’re cutting the bridge,
with your muscles pulsing, wet,
You are catching the stones as they fall from my chest—
all the fortune and glory you’ll get.

And I scraped my knees on cherry trees out in the back.
And I’d hang on your hip and crack your whip, wearing your hat.

And who are these tramps that you traipse around with.
Baby, we could have had so much fun.
Where are Elsa, and Willie, and old Marion
when you’re trapped on a cliff with no gun?

There are no other heros whose ears I’d rather nibble.
No other archeaologist dusts me off like you do.
The way you hide in tombs pops all my grand balloons,
and if you’d just hide here today, I’d keep all the snakes away.

Indiana, I love you, I love you too much
to be just twenty years old.
And you’ve screwed me for dating, ‘cause what stupid boy
could outwit you, Professor Jones
with all these pried-up hormones?