I. Ain’t No Frog

They say the ladies have to kiss
a lot of nasty frogs
before they find a prince,
a man to be their boss.
Well, I am here to let you know:
The frogs have left the palace.
They’re hoppin’ on their little legs;
I wish those toads no malice.

Yeah, I am the real thing:
a masculine phenomenon.
A man to be your king,
whose attributes go on and on...

I slayed the IQ test.
They said I was the best.
I work out every day—well, almost every day.
Not on Thursday.
That’s the day when Man Up meets.
Man Up is my men’s rights group.
I bring coffee and cupcakes. Anyway...

I am a Shaolin monk who took an oath of purity.
A tenth-level wizard who casts a spell of ecstasy.
A four-star general in the war of love.
Can I hold your hand? WHAM! Fit you like a glove.

We can take the party back to your place.
I live with my mom, it’s okay, it’s temporary.
One thing about my back, it can get a little hairy.
Hope that’s okay; I like to manscape when I can,
but it can get expensive, and speaking of expenses,
I’m starting my own bitcoin, it’s the future,
Message me: I’ll hook you up.

If you like what you see,
this prince don’t come for free;
It will cost you several million kisses.
You ladies must be sick of mackin’ on the toad,
Cash in on the love bonanza you are owed.
Just got a text my Toyota has been towed. Shit!
This prince has got to go and he’s no frog.
I ain’t no frog. No frog. You’re the frog.


II. Sola Fide

If y’all clicked on my picture:
Yeah, that’s my chest; that’s my ink.
Got it the night before we deployed
from Fort Bragg to Afghanistan.
I was hungover pretty fierce
and the tat burned under my fatigues
dry heaving on liftoff,
and didn’t think about tomorrow.

“Sola Fide” inked over my heart.
“By Faith Alone” is what it means in Latin.
And no, I don’t speak Latin.
It’s a dead language,
A million years old,
but it lives on me.

Landing at Bagram, my first tour,
kinda like we landed on the moon—
a moon of ghosts and dust and bombs.
Place felt a million years old.
They didn’t train us for the boredom.
Every day was one extreme.
Either contact with a bad guy
or a family invites you to tea.

Don’t ask for my stories.
Don’t search for my scars.
Don’t try to fix what’s broke.
Just hold me.
When dreams in the night wake me up,
I got pills for that.
When the anger rises, got pills for that.
And if the pills run out, hold me.

“Sola Fide,” by faith alone.
May be a dead tongue,
a million years old,
but it lives on my skin, and I’m still
young.
I’m breathing through it,
I’m breathing today.
And I want to have faith in you.
“Sola Fide,” “Sola Fide...”


III. Die With Me

The longer you live,
the older you get,
the older you get,
the less you live,
the less you move,
the less you speak,
the less you feel,
by the window sill,
on the vacant bench,
a table for one,
in line for meds,
an empty crosstown bus takes you home,
a stranger calls
whom you keep on the phone,
and the TV watches you sleep.

This is dying alone, kids.
All your meals are frozen.
None of your days are fresh.
And that persistent rotting odor
is rising from your flesh.

And so I got the neighbor’s son
to set up a profile on this site.
I’m offering that lucky lady,
in search of a mature gentleman,
one final dance!

Won’t you die with me?
Croak with me?
Accept this rose,
and decompose
beneath an oak with me?

We can cuddle and kiss away the hours.
Then our remains may fertilize the flowers.

Expire with me.
Be toast with me.
Kick the bucket,
just say, aw fuck it!
Give up the ghost with me.

I’ll light a scented candle for romance,
Then we can snuff it out and do the boney dance.

Won’t you die with me?
Perish tenderly?
See unquenchable passion in my eyes,
as we synchronize our dual demise,
ending like heroes who died only for love!


IV. Still Vamping

The irony is, my last boyfriend and I:
We both adored pussy.
I mean cats.
Get your minds out of the gutter!
But he was bad with money,
didn’t get Kenneth Anger
and never heard of Proust.
Classic twink, to use le mot juste.
Why are we discussing ancient Mesopotamian history?
I’m vamping.

I’ve been ground through the gears of Grindr.
Got an irritating rash from Scruff.
Called 911 on Bear411,
and basically, boys, men, and other, had enough.

Now I’m here.
See how low I’ve fallen?
A site for...relationships.
Isn’t that just the sexiest word?
Relationships.
What could be sexier?
“Spreadsheet” is sexier.
“Compost” is sexier.
“Tupperware” is sexier.I know;
I’m vamping.

Isn’t everybody gay now?
I was told that everyone, by now, would be gay.
That’s the Agenda, right?
It’s 2020, people!
Twenty. Twenty. A same-sex year.
Still vamping.

That’s me: Romantic Vamp.
The same two chords to fill time,
to pretend I’m fine, don’t ask if I’m
fine, of course I’m fine. I’m alone.
Just me and the cat and the cat’s not sure
this relationship is going anywhere.
That pussy has ceased to care.
The cat’s vamping.

He’s called Beardsley, by the way.
After the late Victorian illustrator who died tragically young? No?
BUH-bye.

By the way, for all you straight-acting conservative Daddies
who think I’m too-too...
I’m a paramedic and who works the graveyard shift.
So before you respond, remember:
I responded first.
Suck on that.
Still, still, still, still, still vamping.

What comes after the vamping?
When does the song begin?
The repetition is cute, then it bores.
Its circular motion resembles an ocean,
but then you can’t swim any more.
You wait for your rescue ship
and wonder: Has that ship sailed or no?


V. Nice-Plus

When I say I’m a nice guy, I get:
“Nice is easy, nice is cheap, nice is next to boring and boring people say ‘nice.’”
So, instead:
I’m organized, highly focused, always on time.
Slow to start, but once I do...!
You can’t stop me connecting to you.
I like to go fast when fast is safe,
sometimes slow is safe, it depends
on the surface, the incline, the curves.
When I’m near the end, I like to go slow.
You can depend on me.
Set your clock by me.

Six figure job, never married, no kids.
Mortgage. Spare room. Two actually.
One is my hobby room.
You see...
One thing about me you could call “nice-plus.”
Obsessive, I guess you would say.
My hobby. My passion. My pride.
I hope you don’t think that it’s weird.
It’s not a kink. Or a secret. Just nice-plus.

I like...trains.
Really, really like trains.
In England they call us trainspotters.
In America it’s railfan. I’m a railfan.
We photograph trains from the platform,
build models, photograph the models, share online,
memorize engines, signals, schedules, interiors of vintage cars...

Why trains?
Trains are organized, highly focused, always on time.
They are slow to start, but when they do...!
Nothing stops them where they’re zooming to.
They go fast when fast is safe,
sometimes slow is safe, it depends
on the surface, the incline, the curves.
You can depend on trains.
Set your clock by trains.

Would you like to travel together by rail?
It’s like falling backward in time.
I know the coziest cars,
where the champagne flows
as the landscape goes flying by.

I don’t always like moving so fast,
but it can be very nice, the view,
in an antique restored red mahogany velvet lined sleeping compartment,
for two.
Me and you!

In Real Life II lyrics Copyright © 2020 by David Cote. Reprinted with permission.