Working at the library eighteen hours a day to the hum of computers not getting their way.
I do understand, sir, I have started to lose my numb little grip of the real thing.

He came back, his two-syllable name like ice at the ends of my fingerless shame.
I admit I checked computer records on the hour by the day. He was reading up on San Diego.

He had so neglected for about a month to return his book, and finally it was due, and I was out the door.
I had to go pick up a wrench in the town across the bridge. I was on my way out; he came in.

Do you realize? Do you re-hal-lize? Do you realize? Do you re-hal-ize?
The Puller of Tides, He’s wanting my skin, ‘cause I like Seventeens and I’m wreaking with sin. But, oh, oh, oh, I like it.

So I drove home, called work and he was still there, so I sped my white Mazda right back.
And when he finally left, I went to get that wrench like a star, but was very soon hit by a car.

I screamed, and all of my audiotapes from the eighties blew up on the dash.
The wipers started thrashing violent on that blue sunny day, and I heard someone say, "You okay?"

The paperwork was filed, I was feeling naked in the police car, and the officer sent me with the tow truck guys.
They dropped me in a parking lot, my legs shaking. No push, but when a car came, I fell in a bush.

I totaled my car and fell in a bush for you. What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.

Mrs. Robinson, move over, you have just met your match for this blond under-aged summer catch.
Dating him would be about as legal as parking my car on a busy, four-lane superhighway.

God know the cosmos are watching above as they monitor this summer love.
Had I not been deviously eyeing that cradle to rob, I would never have gotten my Saab.