I’m far too old for another turn of you inside,
don’t want my head across these fairgrounds,
not quite as fun from this new point of view,
gave all of my spare tickets to other clients.
For somebody else desperate maybe, baby,
that goo no longer penetrates to make sense,
sucking your stupid thumb like you were two,
thinking I must be a fool to confuse it for sexy.
You ain’t my trainer where I jump to commands,
no whistle to hear above your perpetual whine,
spread over the tablecloth for a quick dirty slice,
brimming so an extra piece will decorate this place.
Dig out them potatoes and finally listen to our story,
because there honestly isn’t any and never will be either,
our story, that is, since nobody’s daring from your angle,
except of course for you, as along as it stays right there.
Great that you can keep track of your own time,
and I’ll respond in kind by only caring about mine,
now have your moronic secretary contact you again,
reminding exactly why we ain’t an item for auction.
Nice try with them orders recently translated into sign,
with my answer coming immediately in one contortion,
spinning a basketball upon it before a three-point shot,
nearly breaking the glass as these bleachers detonate.
Sharwrong's Song 