Get over it! We will never catch her
singing along our tiny song. Nor borrowing
words from the silence to put them
and trow them on a glance over the room
toward our corner. Enough is enough,
this music is not one that she will play along,
the violin note is too long, the bowl
of fire not enough to get her belly warm.
Take a hint, get over it, and away, and off, and back.
Your words will not lift her off her feet,
yours is not the love that will make her levitate.

This is the last drink, says the drunk, I wont.
And it is the hundredth time he has lied to himself.
We know we are in trouble.
We look at ourselves taller than we are,
fairier, younger, stronger.
But we are, in fact, small, soaking wet, cold
and, for the love of God, this **** cigarette
wont stay lit.

She don't sees us, man. What are you talking about?
Those words does not have secret meaning.
Can't you see? Only because you go into the sea
doesn't meant that you are going to find your siren.

Get over it. We will never catch her!
Not the way she has our sorry little ***.
She has better plans for tonight. And for tomorrow.
For better or for worst. Get over it.