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.
And with the confidence of prom queens insist on me asking.
Say it was me, who's getting sick on my jeans,
Just as I thought about the part that, "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.