Called
you from a parking lot
To
talk, about things
How
are you? Is it too late?
I'm
sorry
No,
it's alright you'd say
As
your alarm blinks one-thirty
I
can't shake, the feeling
It's
too much, yeah
Why
did God hate us? (no, just me)Even
if you were able to tell me
I
don't, think I
Could
handle it, no no, no
At
the corner with the restaurant
I
asked the same question again
Only
to receive the same response
Too
much, too late, too early
Why
had God made us, just to laugh at usProblems
just don't go away
No,
I'm really not okay
I'm,
just, fine (to let you know)
I,
don't, need you (anymore)
Whatever
I need to say to get over it?
Fine...you're
a whore.
dial tone