Words: Green salad, you. Green is the color of change, dressing my face. Eat, die, hunger, cry. Eat, die, hunger, cry. Can I find the peace in that? Can I find the love in that? Haven't talked to you in two months now. I swear I need to get a dog; a different kind of love. Eat, die, hunger, cry. Eat die, hunger, cry. Can I find the peace in that? Can I find the love in that? If I were a waiter, I'd hold you like a book in the small of my back. I'd feed you some tempeh; I'd throw away the meat and never look back. I'd stop the clock right here and let you eat your food real slow. Can't you eat just a little slower, a little slower, a little slower? The fork and spoon they are lying on the dirty floor. I can't feel that knife in my heart, anymore. If I were a waiter, I'd take your order and I'd never come back. But you are a waitress, and all you can say is "Would you like a salad with that?" © 2002 S. Sanford Anderson