I don't know why I'm tired,
Possibly I'm nervous about a girl that heard us play
The song about that time
You were into race cars, comic books, her pockmarked thighs.
I found my father's gun
Underneath his Hustler magazines and tin foil pipes,
Our day had finally come,
What a waste of time!
She was sweet and pale, a chopstick through her hair,
Shaking out the static from her velvet dress,
Wooden chairs and half moons spilled across her legs.
Let's just be cautious,
I never thought I'd last this long, I never thought I'd make it.
She could fit a cue ball inside her mouth and whistle, thereby demonstrating everything:
Her backward logic, hatred, lovesick, and painful headtrip...
I checked the pilot light,
It's out; we're in for one cold night,
I must admit, I'm terrified
Of spiders, shadows, bloodshot eyes.
