We walk alone like broken motorists. Behind the bars and discotechs.
Love is product and sex is a currency. We're all cheaters and can't win.
Imagine the girl holding by will paint a picture of a kinder, gentler war.
And our good scenes that have no ending.
One that leaves us standing at the gates with broken wings
while a heart scan reports "access denied, access denied." We have arrived.
Damn. . . I don't even know where to begin. If it comes from an art house, grind house, out house, crack house, or whore house, I'm probably gonna dig it.