Fix My Blues

Ain't I fair?
Ain't I kind?
And I'm paid to feel fine, but I haven't spent a dime since I met you.
Your breasts are like two wrists that I handcuff
to my dick, in a subculture of love and refraction.
But I die every morning again, me at my worst is fun for them.
And I die with the feeding tube while you try to fix my blues.
Your city is so unclean in a washington
machine and tour face is like a cage and two of them.
And your sentiment is gone and it's now enslaved
by gods, while I strum my broken legs like a banjo.
But I die every morning again, me at my worst is fun for them.
And I die with the feeding tube while you try to fix my blues.
But when I feel my heart retracting to my
soul, it makes an ego seem more valuable than gold.
And I die every morning again, me at my worst is fun for them.
And I die with the feeding tube while you try to fix my blues.