Black boots on hard grey,
as you walk towards me,
and I think will it be,
the same when we're forty,

I'll sit opposite you,
table's always turning,
as you complain of your skin itching,
for fresh air I'm yearning,

your tooth aches,
the floor is cold,
working all day
thats the line we're sold,
broke up with him,
because he was too sad,
really I know you don't care
but you say you feel bad,

the world is spinning!
my eyes closed and glass cupped
flat lined you'd see the problem,
is really that you talk way too much.