behind you face, your cringing from the corner of your eye you’re looking for an escape
but I’ve already dragged you to a booth in the bar, and I got you alone and you feel the unease rising and there’s nowhere to run
you’re stuck and I’m pulling out my little poetry book with the fairy on the cover
and I have you alone, all to myself and I’m sharpening the rusted tools of torture so squirm
here come the words they’re bouncing off your glazed eyes and you feel every one
they’re hard to make out over the bar racket but the ones you can make out are I, He, My, Miss, Love, Death, Lament and Autumn Leaves
the words inspire, the nagging need for more gin a bullet free from its chamber splatter brain bits a death letter
or for someone to save you and over the slur of my tired lines you see your friends safely ignoring you in a group holding beer torches miles and miles away
they’re laughing and you hate them
because you’re stuck with me and I won’t stop no end in sight I have so much feeling that I want you to know about
not enough gin your face hurts from smiling your head hurts from nodding a hostage’s sentiment