Boys

Boys, boys, boys, boys Boys, boys, boys, boys Boys like to trash the things you like But when you like what they like They say it's not right Boys, boys, boys, boys Boys, boys, boys, boys What makes them think There's a world inside of me Made of flowers and smoky dreams That a nightmare's not what it seems Full of the gold of their enemies What makes them think They could spar with the evil That made me That made me That made me That made me Boys never ask you what you like They talk to each other all night About the things they like Boys, boys, boys, boys Boys, boys, boys, boys What makes them think That gentle is fertility That death won't provide for me The desperation of babies Trying to claw their way out of me What makes them think That they concern the furies Who love me Who love me Who love me Who love me Who loves me baby Who loves me baby