Every time you are away,
the vultures ask if I'd "like to play",
and lately I tend to say,
"Okay."

They invite me to dim rooms,
we talk about how all our friends
are "old friends",
we talk about ex-boyfriends,
weather, pregnant people,
and potential careers.

They ask if I'd like something to drink,
and lately I tend to say,
"Okay."

So we sip poison,
put on one of their country records,
or play some ****-poor movie,
and I never really say anything.

They ask if I'd like to lay beside them,
and lately I tend to say,
"Okay."

We undress,
push, pull, sweat, hate,
die,
and then the vultures
always make the eyes,
and I always have to
wipe my brow,
clear my throat,
and say,
"Our touch doesn't mean much.
Okay?"