You say you've got drunk fingers
and I think you're itching at the trigger
drinking alone, covered in sin again
and I can just almost see through your skin
you're just not the type of boy
whose skies are always baby blue
you're just some new chore
one more thing left for me to do
your pockets whisper to my hips
but I just shut my lips
I'll listen but I'm not speaking back
no longer making up all the words you lack
“but when I sing, I mean those things”
over and over you said
well that's all good and well
but I can't have you living in my head
Once or twice, we messed around
but it's like Fort Knox now
I'm all locked up
you ain't getting in
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