Awake too long and feeling kinda sick,
I throw myself into these temperamental fits
I assure you that it's no trance I'm under.
I'm waiting on a car with someone that's inside
I never met before, entrust them with my life
I hope I don't get murdered
Yet I wonder
How much does one tip to get skinned?
Counting out the ways
I end up sewn into upholstery— exquisitely displayed.
By these thoughts I am consumed
Self-avoidance at its finest, always coming off removed.
I pass the time between each borrowed cigarette
I light to connect with my disconnected friends
I hope that something awful blows my cover.
I've got these ill-defined points of interest on my mind
And I know it's just my integral blunder.
I'm just waiting for my ride.
Crawling in my skin
Of which I thankfully still have,
But this night's not yet met its end.
I pray I am consumed.
Conflicting sense of self-importance, maybe I'm avoiding
The moment's getting near, I'm hoping that I'm right
With FOX news, Mohandas Gandhi, & Lord Jesus Christ.
Are you sure it's not a trance that I'm under?
And I don't fear no (tin foil) apocalyptic propositions from Big Brother
Meanwhile I beg,
"Oh Dear Driver, take your tip
Count your blessings— let me live."
Our conversation's off the table but it's coming back to haunt me in spades.
I never knew a thought was able to first crystallize then shatter under its own weight.
I'd contemplate what's on the table, but I know you're trying to rope me in.
A seatbelt-click of paranoia incase we don't escape the lane we're in unscathed.