You say you've got the fire down below,
You say you're ready,
Itching to go-
But that fire's on your tongue,
In the form of lies, suspended and hung.
That fire's licking your teeth
And it's curling
And you spit it at me-

You're not destined to make old bones,
No babies, no little red clones;
You're not destined to make old bones,
You hardly deserve your current ones.