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.