Mona Vs. The Argentine

In my mind, there's a street
Where the honeysuckle grows
And the swollen sun filters through
Rows of oak trees
On this street
Mona lives in a blue house-
She smiles as I come up the sidewalk
I look at her and I breathe
Through love's transparency
In my mind, there's another voice
That rises up against these pretty dreams
It duly screams: "These are not my needs."
"I don't give a damn about Mona's street
I would rather join the Merchant Marines-
Half-crazed, on the deck of the Argentine."
I'll set off in both extremes
Find the place that calms the ache:
Mona, Marines or another escape
Returning yearning
Would be a mistake
If I don't return-
For my sake, celebrate