She moved like the pouring rain…
… I may not see her again…
But ain’t these stories all the same?
- This game is so lame…
Like an anvil on my brain
Weighing down this train…
… again.

But this time I won’t forget her name.
Chasing fame is how your wings turn to flames.

She says she wants to sore,
and that less is more…

She leaves but she don’t say a word.
But she’s fine, or so I’ve heard.
All I wanna know are the magic words
to catch this bird…

I am solidified by what she’d sow.
I am castracized by the games she played.
I was mortified by the lengths she’d go.
And now I’m ostracised by what I know.

But I’m live where she’s concerned.
But I don’t mind, ‘cause I’ve been burned.
What tables do I have to turn.
To catch this bird?…