Spare me a little oxygen,
I'd want to see the onset of tomorrow
Through the blurring from my tears
So I can't know for sure,
That proof of your existence
Lies in treacherous memory
And that you're gone.

The retrograde misanthrope
Takes another blow
While she keeps the show running
In a technicolor blaze
So you can't know for sure,
It's her toxic blood winding down the stage.

It can't be helped
and there's no one to implicate
But her induced kleptomania
Dripping from the slack tips of her fingers
Until she's left standing
In a pool of her own guilt.