I still remember Third of december
Me in your sweater
You said it looked better

On me, than it did you
Only if you knew
How much I liked you
But I watch your eyes, as she

Walks by
What a sight for
Sore eyes
Brighter than a
Blue sky
She's got you
Mesmerized
While I die

Why would you ever kiss me?
I'm not even half, as pretty
You gave her your sweater
It's just polyester, but you like her better
Wish I were heather
Watch as she stands with
Her holding your hand
Put your arm 'round her shoulder
Now I'm getting colder

But how could I hate her?
She's such an angel
But then again, kinda
Wish she were dead, as she

Walks by
What a sight for
Sore eyes
Brighter than a
Blue sky
She's got you
Mesmerized
While I die

Why would you ever kiss me?
I'm not even half, as pretty
You gave her your sweater
It's just polyester, but you like her better
I wish I were heather

Wish I were heather
Wish I were heather

Why would you ever kiss me?
I'm not even half as pretty
You gave her your sweater
It's just polyester, but you like her better

if u dont know if ur gay or not u have to ask ur self dis

explanation:

the answer to number one is b the answer to number to is a

it was surely an odd creature that one made up by reading the historians first and the poets afterwards a worm winged like an eagle; the spirit of life and elegance and charm,   in a kitchen chopping up suet. but these creatures, monst'r however entertaining to the imagination, hast no existence in fact. what one might doth to bringeth h'r to life wast to bethink poetically and prosaically at one and the same moment,   thus keeping in toucheth with fact—that the lady is mrs martin, ag'd thirty-six, did dress in blue, wearing a black coxcomb and brown shoeth; but not losing sight of fiction eith'r—that the lady is a vessel in which all s'rts of spirits and f'rces art coursing and flashing p'rpetually. the moment, howev'r, yond one tries this method with the elizabethan mistress, one brancheth of illumination fails; one is did hold up by the scarcity of facts.   one knoweth nothing detailed, nothing p'rfectly true and substantial about h'r.   hist'ry scarcely mentions h'r.   and i did turn to professeth'r trevelyan again to seeth what hist'ry meanteth to that gent.   i hath found by looking at his chapt'r headings yond t meanteth.