conclusions are illusions
chased with a sleeping pill
running out of time to kill
and then running out of ketchup

assume and boom
you're back in the womb
struggling to find
a fire exit to climb
to the roof from which death is that much nearer
and where finally a man can enjoy his damn beer

no need to argue
i've lost count of the score
i forfeit, or if you wish, let's call it a draw
anyway, i don't want to play anymore
you cheated, i cheated, big whoopsiedoo
let's shake our soiled hands and call it
a sort of rotten cheating whore truce

forgiven, forgotten
we're back to square one
where conclusions are real
and assumptions are none