Counting cracks on the sidewalk,
We wander watching clocks,
Waiting to be summoned once again to our
hell of coffee and French fries.
Submissive's to that little hand,
We put on our little black aprons
And our big fake smiles and
Let them laugh at us,
Our mistakes and our identities –
I'm the little waitress girl who
Holds her weak wrists to hide scars.
This masquerade is so fake
And so boring.
So sick of acting like everything is alright –
We've got bills to pay and this shift means
No sleep tonight,
And none tomorrow.
Our pets are dying and our backs and knees
And hearts are so sick of faking.
We need a pause, a release,
A chance to escape.
And. I. am. So. Tired.
Tomorrow is another story –
Work eight am til ten at night then hop in
A little blue car and speed towards
Good ole indie for a nice motel
Cheep gas and a cheep carton which
They smoke out the sun roof window.
Here's where all our dreams ran to?
Two hours of sleep and we're waiting
At the front of line to scream
And let the music release us from eternity.
But we know it will all just end again,
And we'll head back over the borders
And slip back into our modern fairytale.