Gaslight Anthem

I would offer you tea, except it would burn the tongue you

Needlessly lash my way when I'm

Sure, sexy, slumping, slurping on my sorrys

I wonder if you know that I

Do not know reality anymore

Itchy palms to touch the love you once blanketed upon me

Only you've woven smallpox into my small box

Useless to question the who's who of fuses: we are artificial light, and I'm your bedroom's fixture:

Sconce, shaken, dim-witted, daft.