How tired we are Always taking hot salt baths, thinking that they'll heal our gaping wounds. Then we cry because we hurt like **** and are naive enough to ask the faucet why it would do such a thing. It wasn't even the faucet. How is it that we don't ever feel clean unless we are burning? Our minds are saturated in switched blame but I'm also saturated in my own hot air. Let's hum. Stand ***** in puddles of rain water and ask God why you've caught cold feet, why you're running away from feeling something. Don't **** the passion, just watch it live sadly and then die. You die, not the passion. Someone else will catch it and since it's awfully contagious they'll give it to someone else too. Passion Plague. I'm nifty with words. Be nifty with hands. Bend me over and fold me in until you're inhaling sticky sweat and loose hairs. I have penny slots and other slots that are empty waiting. You've got the parts so you know what they are waiting for. I do too, but I'll be ***** to make you ***** if I have to. Pop off can tops and keep them between your front teeth as I dance around the empty ashtray in our hotel room. The sheets are cold like your rain water feet and thin like self restraint, but I'll still tease. Let's make sin worth burying and call it the Boogie Monster anyway.