It's all horniness and drinking.
Will you take off all your clothes.
It's all pretend love we're making.
Let's make sure that no one knows.

Now she's making me food,
and kissing me on the cheek.
In the morning when she leaves my room,
I pretend I'm still asleep

So pull the blankets over my eyes,
but I can still taste your breath.
There's so much worry in our disguise
that you're not "her" and I'm not "him." No I'm not "him."

But here we sit exchanging "gifts"
a mouthful of spit and the fantasy of flips, inside and out.
And here we act like a lovers pact in sheets attacked,
biting and barebacked, but this ain't home.
And while we've arranged the props and stage,
there's still an ending that I can't fake, but I still try.
And so we've becoming the silent guns, ready to cum,
Score then it's won, and then I run. Then I run away

Because this never satisfies me.
So I repeat.

I never cared much for numbers, but still I'm keeping score.
Wondering just what I'm doing wrong.
I can't seem to have what I had before.
You arrive in the dim light, solitude, and car rides,
just for one night, and speak like it's just right what I can find.
And if I just stand with hawk eyes, continue the same sight,
and stop being so shy, then I just might. Oh I just might.

But here we sit exchanging "gifts"
a mouthful of spit and the fantasy of flips, inside and out.
And here we act like a lovers pact in sheets attack,
biting and barebacked, but this ain't home.
And while we've arranged the props and stage,
there's still an ending that I can't fake, but I still try.
And so we've becoming the silent guns, ready to cum,
Score then it's won, and then I run. Then I run away

Because this never satisfies me.
So I repeat.

So I wait on the dock with the bait and the bone,
the rocks and the weeds, the beer and the pole,
and I'm waiting for tugs to tell me I'm home,
Oh gimme the gold, oh show me. I'm sold.

But it's all in the faith of the weight of the stones,
and the burden of love, and the muscle that's toned
to beat to the core, satifaction, you whore.
with the clothes on the floor, the knock on the door.
When your number is useless, and I've forgotten the score,
'Cause I've never remembered something like this before,
But there's always room for something more.
But your skin's always scales, and your lungs never fill,
and whether you're happy, it's too hard to tell,
So I tally you down for the memory in me that says,
"I'm not so lonely in the middle of the sea."

But I've learned not to trust my memory.