You’re the worst in turn, the first of the night
Who could stand there staring at the blacks of your eyes?
What a curious type, reaching out for the iron
To never ask for a slap, but don’t indulge in a smile
We’re twenty-first dead rats again
You’re the worst in turn, the first of the hour
I can feel it creeping on me out of the shower
Like a film on a postcard, a moment entranced
And with the confidence of prom queens, insist on me asking
Well say it was me, who’s getting sick on my jeans
Just as I thought about the part that goes, «You're such a disease.»
Go on and call around after I’ve been put down
So fucking empty when it hits, you’ll hear a hollow sound
I’m twenty-first dead rats again