Hair a mess, just been dressed
eyes bloodshot from all this stress
no one to talk to
none to hold
your job makes you ever old
paranoia creeping in
is this gods punishment for all your sin
thinking of your loverlies in bed
that thought alone fills you with dread
for another twelver in a cue
stocking, ordering, in painful shoes
and hey it's still three hours before anyone else gets up
you picked your poison coca-cola man not quit your bitchin' and man up
No comments:
Post a Comment