What is left of me sits burning in the bottom of this ashtray.
I'm an ugly mess, I'm full of it, and I'm a lame excuse for a poet.
It really all comes down to my love for misfortune.
A weak stomach and a mouthful of bad intentions. Watch your mouth!
Cause I'm the son of a gun, tempt not one in love.
I live my life by a night stand bible from a motel in limbo.
I have a way with failure and I'm the poster child for giving up on you.
And this lack of belief is what leaves me room for loving you.
Relax, come on - relax and give in I was born to make you moan.
You let her climb inside your ribs and let her tangle herself up in your bones.
Don't think for a second, that she gives a damn.
It's a shame you try so hard just for a girl. Who doesn't know your name or care to remember.
And it's a shame I can't remember anything.
I can't even recall your taste or the monster that I became.
I've tasted death, its graced my lips, I wanna give it back.
But I want you bad. I want you bad. You better watch your mouth, I'm the son of a gun.