Fix My Blues

Ain't I fair, ain't I kind

And I'm payed to feel fine

But I haven't spent a dime

Since I met you

Your breasts are like two wrists

That I've handcuffed to my dick

In a subculture of love and refraction

But I die every morning again

Me at my worst is fun for them

And I die with a feeding tube

While you try to fix my blues

Your city is so unclean

In a Washington machine

And your face like a cage

And two of them

And your sentiment is gone

And your now enslaved by gods

While strum my broken legs like a banjo

But I die every morning again

Mе at my worst is fun for them

And I die with a feeding tube

Whilе you try to fix my blues

But when I feel my heart retract into my soul

It makes an ego seem more valuable than gold

And I die every morning again

Me at my worst is fun for them

And I die with a feeding tube

While you try to fix my blues