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You're the worst in turn, the first of the night |
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Who could stand there staring at the blacks of your eyes |
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What a curious type, reaching out for the iron |
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To never ask for a slap, but don't indulge in a smile |
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We're twenty-first dead rats again |
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You're the worst in turn, the first of the hour |
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I can feel it creeping on me out of the shower |
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Like a film on a postcard, a moment entranced |
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And with the confidence of prom queens insist on me asking |
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Say it was me, who's getting sick on my jeans, |
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Just as I thought about the part that goes "You're such a disease" |
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Go on and call around, after I've been put down |
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So fucking empty when it hits you'll hear a hollow sound |
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I'm twenty-first dead rats again |
