You’re a lazy string picker, chord roaming and flying off rhythm before I start mouthing those words I know. On drugs you’re slower. You’ve got those lost eyes, your fingertips quake like seared mice. When I try to match my lines with yours my chest twinges. You like singing “Wild Thing”, especially when the guitar pauses and you get to drawl, “Wild Thing, I think I love you”. I fumble for your gaze. If you gave those words to me, my smiles would never fade. But you’re buried in the sky, and I’m let down. I’ll be the dependable smoker, those sticks are so good to me. So if you’re all sped up and want to drag butts and spew madness, you ask me. We can kill a pack within the hour.

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