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the butter melts out of habit |
|
the toast isn't even warm |
|
the waitress and the man in the plaid shirt |
|
play out a scene they've played |
|
so many times before |
|
I am watching the sun stumble home in the morning |
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from a bar on the east side of town |
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and the coffee is just water dressed in brown |
|
beautiful but boring |
|
he visited me yesterday |
|
he noticed my fingers |
|
and asked me if I would play |
|
I didn't really care a lot |
|
but I couldn't think of a reason why not |
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I said if you don't come any closer I don't mind if you stay |
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my thighs have been involved in many accidents |
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and now I can't get insured |
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and I don't need to be lured by you |
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my cunt is built like a wound that won't heal |
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and now you don't have to ask |
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because you know how I feel |
|
you know how I feel |
|
art is why I get up in the morning |
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but my definition ends there |
|
and it doesn't seem fair |
|
that I'm living for something I can't even define |
|
there you are right there |
|
in the meantime |
|
I don't want to play for you anymore |
|
show me what you can do |
|
tell me what are you here for |
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I want my old friends |
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I want my old face |
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I want my old mind |
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**** this time and place |
|
the butter melts out of habit |
|
you know, the toast isn't even warm |
