either the girls are getting simpler
or i've been drifting as a whore
either my arms are getting bigger
or my fists don't bleed much any more

the river, muddy, returns a reflection
to test if i still know what i look like
i stare with thoughtful affection
at what could be any old worthless fake

there's a question between my tongue and lips
that never quite seems worth reasking
as the same sad confession regrips
all i can do is wait for the river's passing