we're dusting off our guns for the summertime
memories to be made and sadness for each one
you can take me out only if you can pick me up with your arms
and if you don't want to come I guess I'll go in all alone
trying to be indifferent, painting on my face rifting my face
let's try to cover it up with masks, hide the suffering
and maybe you're showing interest in my proposition
or just leading me on to a scrap of your own
what's the sign I'm supposed to search on your face for?

the next time you're in town I'll wonder if everything is real
you keep biting strands of my hair, just missing bullets from afar
baby tell me how you feel in bed, something wrong with me
don't waste another day worrying what I am other than the fact
I am real, and really alone, unable to speak in other things than money