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