Stale face like smoked yellow teeth,
breaking on music for cold feet,
I know the way ain’t yours here
you are dead.
I wanna pass out or drink and stay,
I am not gay or even happy about this,
the torture of the mirror thorns
my itching head.
Soon I slap my hand away from here,
dreaming down a light switch,
a bitching stare at my corn
with you instead.