You say no strings every time, babe,
then you wrap me in blurry tragedies
and I can't refuse.
Sometimes I'm just walking the tightrope
of your washing line, searching out scuff-marks
and stains, the dirt under the new shine.
We're both so far from fine but, girl,
can't you see that makes us fine?
We like pretending ('though every sleeve's stained red).