Loss of magic

It’s a tree, you say
You glance at it
But you don’t really see

And as you do, it dies a bit
Outside your mind things are still free
You’re just too busy
Always on edge, always ready to go
‘Cause others, well, they said you should
yes, others told you so

It’s a flower, you say
As if noise like this
could ever capture the magic

You think it’s just a mundane thing
and nothing in that is too tragic
But you call yourself Bob
and your woman is Sue
Already ready to taint your bond blue
Set out a trap, diminish in passion
Then later regret that unconscious transgression

We follow the steps of conquerors
quite content with their labels
They help cut the spruce and pluck those roses
and criticize our spouses

Step by step, we lose our sense
Still have our words in our defense
Until each year on Christmas Eve
We all suffer a little the consequence