you ask me to pop the bones in your back
\nbut I don’t ever seem to pop the right one
\nstill you complain about the pain
\nand I have to explain
\nthat I’m no chiropractor
\nnor am I an actor who played one on TV
\nso what more do you want from me
\nanother day another wasted night
\nand it frightens me to see
\nthat I might be wasting my life
\nwatching it dwindle away with your words
\nbetween the slurs that slip
\nso nonchalant out of your drunken mouth
\nthat stinks like the small print
\non the bottom of the label
\nof your 30 dollar bottle of vodka
\nthe one with Stalin standing proud
\nand it looks like another comatose Christmas
\nstockings hanging nearly empty
\nfilled only with a sense of self-pity
\nthat once was love for you when ya looked so pretty
\nbefore I lost all my admiration
\nbefore you underwent some transformation
\nlike a butterfly emerging
\nfrom a cocoon experiment totally gone wrong
\nand I guess its best that I accept
\nthat it even lasted this long
\nbut my bags are packed and I won’t be back
\nthe next time you stumble home<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"