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.
