I can't help but think you've wasted
all your life here on this.
What is this anyway?
All you have to show are cookie crumbs and paper cuts,
and I can't help but think you're wasted.
Hiding behind your defensive line of bottles
the carnage of your weakness shows
in fortune cookie flesh strewn before you.
What do you think?
Does this script fit
or does it lie like the rest?
Crumple it, toss it aside
to lie with the rest.
It doesn't matter,
you can deny it exists.
Denial's a bitch, and you know it!
It shows in the bottles, and smells on your breath.
It sounds with each cookie cracked open;
another layer closer to the truth.
And it reads off bloodshot eyes
as you read one-liners in search of gospel.
Denial! Denial! It's not just a river,
but yours is a river of alcohol,
its estuary in the pit of your stomach.
Swallow your pride and
deny it! Deny it!
But fingers ornate with paper cuts are proof otherwise.
Take up the next in this
fortune cookie roulette,
a sad predictable fate,
weighing your future on a cookie's word.
But you're the sad one,
your trust in a cookie's wisdom.
Break the flesh, transubstantiate,
contemplate the divination inside.
Taken to heart:
reread again over another drink.
Hidden behind a defensive line of bottles
the carnage of your weakness shows
in fortune cookie flesh thrown before you,
while you contemplate divination from
behind your defensive line of bottles.
Reread the script again over another drink.
I can't help but think you've wasted
all your life here at this, with nothing to show
but cookie crumbs and sliver scars.
I can't help but think you're wasted.
I can't help but think
you're so fucking wasted,
and I can't help.
