You look like the only woman in this bar who knows how to use a semicolon.
Is it me, or is this song full of logical fallacies?
Allow me to buy you a beverage and then proceed upward through Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
You are hotter than the several-million-degree-Fahrenheit gaseous surface eruption known as a solar flare.
Not even da Vinci, with his deft chiaroscuro, could improve upon the three-dimensionality of your figure.
I want to do with you what Jean-Paul Sartre did with Simone de Beauvoir.
Pardon me, but are you ovulating? I couldn’t help but notice the symmetry of your face.
Whenever I look at you, everyone else disappears. I’d say you’re a magician, but we both know magic is predicated on a false belief in the power of mysterious forces to influence events.
You should stop, drop, and roll, because you are currently being oxidized in the exothermic chemical process of combustion.
Would you like to copulate sometime before sunrise? The zeitgeist demands it.
The laws of probability dictate that you’re not likely to come home with me, but fortes fortuna adiuvat, right?
Other than succumbing to cellular senescence, what are you doing the rest of your life?