It's like some overbearing tax on praxis;   how I'm supposed to feel bad for this   when all I've sworn to do   is hold soul like a cold in haunted bronchial tubes.   And my love for you   is harmless as fallen fruit.   'Picked up quick how nice   a jaw cradles a fist -   you made it look like an accident   and no (no)   one finds truth   among tooth that march 'round   my parched mouth   slinging science to the beat of their own gums.   Ooh (ooh)-ahh-la-lies we advertise.   Bastardized pidgin insult,   a lingua franca of   heroes and villains:   Failure.   I don't know it any more than I know success -   it ain't my mess.   I won't baby you, won't wipe your mouth   when the shit-talk stops.   Oh, stop.