Nothing more sickening than a love song, Nothing more false, more shallow, more untrue than a love song, That sentimental shit, that clusterfuck shithouse churning it dials and nobs, Blistering on the back of your car seat, "I think I'm going to be sick" you say, "I think I'm going to be sick."
Change the channel, Turn it off.
Don't you think I need some time alone? Don't you ever ask?
About my thoughts, their rhythm, Their bend and snap, Their pulse?
Don't you ever wonder about my dreams, About the man who lurks, a deep crease in the circuit, a cut on my sleeve.
What did you say? What was that? I can't hear you, the lines bad.