it seems i am the first guy a girl might call
when her boyfriend leaves her crying locked in a bathroom stall
with mixed drink in her hair and lipstick on her chin
at three at night something tells her "why don't you give alex a ring"

there's not much to say aside from the sobbing hello's
waiting for the words that reaffirm our classical roles
for me to fight the boyfriend, get breakfast at a diner
dig her dirtiest secrets like a god damn coal miner

something in the poems i write speaks to her fears
that an asshole like me is all she has when comfort disappears
and radiohead with vodka don't numb the senses any more
and so the gazelle returns to the lion's den to once again hear him roar