The sappy, lovey-dovey crap
That slowly drips like pine-tree sap
Rubbed off of lovers, sticks to me,
And permeates; how can it be?
It churns my stomach, makes me sick
Creates an envy, oh! so thick
That I abhor what makes me haste
To find someone so I can taste
And see what lovers know. Perhaps,
I'm just a sentimental sap.