I'm in my own little world, and I need to get out soon
the effort's running thin
I can't win
but that doesn't make me lose
selling yourself for that piece of good
It's impossible to be so truthful it makes me feel sick
but the cross-fingered hand plays a mean card trick
that predicts faster living.
apathy abounds from me
and I'm waiting for my 15 minute soliloquoy.
that perhaps makes me special
it makes me ill to think about it

in light of hindsight this'll all seem rosier
I might delight in a life more comfortable
but I'm missing the point all over again...