the lines on your face tell a story i've never heard
nor seen, blown to smithereens, you're a broken bird
with your wings growing back crookedly
the first time you saw will be the last time you see
i've seen this fifteen times before
the sixteenth won't mean much more
you're awfully late to the game you started yourself

your eyes once looked my way
floating in ***** water, unbathed
thinking i'm headed for a watery grave
because, to your eyes, i'm a slave
getting better at your favorite game