21st Dead Rats

You're the worst in turn, the first of the night.

Who could stand there staring at the blacks of your eyes?

What a curious type, reaching out for the iron.

To never ask for a slap, but don't indulge in a smile.

We're twenty-first dead rats again.

You're the worst in turn, the first of the hour.

I can feel it creeping on me out of the shower.

Like a film on a postcard, a moment entranced,

And with the confidence of prom queens insist on me asking.

Well say it was me, who's getting sick on my jeans,

Just as I thought about the part that goes: "You're such a disease."

Go on and call around, after I've been put down.

So fucking empty when it hits you'll hear a hollow sound.

I'm twenty-first dead rats again.