And I’m wasted. You can taste it. Don’t look at me that way, 'Cause I'll be hanging from a rope. I will haunt you like a ghost.
If my woman was a fire, She’d burn out before I wake, And be replaced by pints of whiskey, Cigarettes, and outer space. Then somebody moves And everything you thought you had has gone to shit. Well, we’ve got a lot. Don’t ever forget that.
The buggy code of my internal workings keeps synced with my bad timing. That’s flaw. The dead spot in between our ears keeps spreading. When we stand up, no one comes to ask, “Why is this backwards?” The alarm doesn’t go off after you’re awake. And especially that feeling you get when you meet someone who looks like you, that one hundred dollar tip, and a town, or a family, without enough money to keep itself alive.