My bed smells too much like me
My lips taste too much like my mouth
My eyes know too well the mirror
While all the while I'd rather be staring you down
My mouth knows too well the frown
My heart knows too well the beat
It's been laying a somber march for years
What a tired old drummer he is
But oh what new music his ears yearn to hear
What sweet funky bassline he longs be near
This life's like a junior high dance
And I'm sick of dancing alone
I suggest we go spike the punch
Let's do something to break up the flow
Ripple and ripple and what do you know...
Maybe we've found what we were looking for.
A drunk make-out session behind the gym door.
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