about two years back, i cut up my eye at a show i played
smoked it into a golden raisin, coughing without knowing where i put my keys
until i met a hell of a drink bought for me by an eight-inch mini-skirt tease
she kept insisting she go down on me, it lacked romance, but it was free

and as i said, i misplaced my keys, had a guitar that seemed heavy
no car, so every decision made my legs feel unsteady
looking around for the broken type, someone trapped in the heartache of one too many shots
but the night was over for me, i ran out of thoughts, gave in to the momentum of chatter

but the bitch of it is that the momentum grows, in the days, months, and years
making life into a kind of slide-show of miniskirts that are masochistic shadows cast by the soul
and with tired legs and cut up eyeballs, i take control, until the night withers, my interest too
like the rash on a body part that has been used too many times, without purpose