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The Abstracts
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Sick of Second Best
Oh I'm sick of second best
So far the tree of destiny has dealt a cardiac arrest
I'm so sick of getting undressed into an empty room
Awaiting only pleasures of the fist
It goes a little something like this
Oh trust me you won't be missed
But darling don't you ever cry for me
The mourning will simply carry me
So I start up a brand new day
I drop the rhetoric as I bathe in a beautiful cliché
I tried and tried it my own way
self-will will be the death of me
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but in a non off-handish way
It goes a little something like this
Oh trust me you won't be missed
But darling don't you ever cry for me
The mourning will simply carry me
It goes a little something like this
Oh trust me you won't be missed
But darling don't you ever cry for me
The mourning will simply carry me
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