Fix My Blues

Ain't I fair, ain't I kind

And I'm paid to feel fine

But I haven't spent a dime

Since I met you

Your breasts are like two wrists

That I've handcuffed to my dick

In a subculture of love

And refraction

And I die every morning again

Me at my worst is fun for them

And I die with a feeding tube

While you try to fix my blues

Your city's so obscene

In a Washington machine

And your face is like a cage

And two of them

And your sentiment is gone

And you're now replaced by gods

While I strum my broken legs

Like a banjo

And I die every morning again

Me at my worst is fun for them

And I die with a feeding tube

While you try to fix my blues

But when I feel my heart retract into my soul

It makes an ego seem more valuable than gold

And I die every morning again

Me at my worst is fun for them

And I die with a feeding tube

While you try to fix my blues