Day after day love turns gray like the skinf of a dying man, night after night we pretend it's all right but I have grown older and you have grown colder and nothing is very much fun any more. And I can feel one of my turns coming on, I feel cold as razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drumb.
Run to the bedroom: in the suitcase on the left you'll find my favorite axe; don't look so frghtened (this is just a passin phase, one of my bads days)
Would you like to watch TV?
Or get between the sheets?
Or contemplate the silent freeway?
Would you like something to eat?
Would you like to learn to fly, would ya'?
Would you like to see me try?
Would you like to call the cops?
Do you think it's time I stopped?
Why are you running away?