at the first sign of trouble
i'm running, half-naked
flask in my back pocket
searching for new facebook friends

all that poetry about love and death
is like an everclear after-burn
except that i don't seem to learn
of the lies chuckling behind every sound

i have muscle, i have brain
a couple lines, a little game
some flirt with a misspelled name
may fall for it, or at least stumble

and fate will watch me crawl and crawl
with worms and other self-indulging creatures
in search of ass, tits, or other features
that inherently suffer from diminishing returns

and that old happy day won't come
when no more running's to be done
when standing with me arm in arm
she will become my perfect exit