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What is left of me sits burning in the bottom of this ashtray. I'm an ugly mess, I'm full of it, and I'm a lame excuse for a poet. It really all comes down to my love for misfortune. A weak stomach and a mouthful of bad intentions. Watch your mouth! Cause I'm the son of a gun, tempt not one in love. I live my life by a night stand bible from a motel in limbo. I have a way with failure and I'm the poster child for giving up on you. And this lack of belief is what leaves me room for loving you. Relax, come on - relax and give in I was born to make you moan. You let her climb inside your ribs and let her tangle herself up in your bones. Don't think for a second, that she gives a damn. It's a shame you try so hard just for a girl. Who doesn't know your name or care to remember. And it's a shame I can't remember anything. I can't even recall your taste or the monster that I became. I've tasted death, its graced my lips, I wanna give it back. But I want you bad. I want you bad. You better watch your mouth, I'm the son of a gun. |
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