My radio only knows one beat, it goes kick kick kick snare

kick kick kick snare kick. You sing your songs with the words all wrong, as if you do us a favour. My heart breaks a harsher art, you aren't as tender as you say you are. A bedroom was the perfect cocoon for you to do your damage. My radio plays your favourite station, like one endless awkward conversation. This just isn't really working out, I'm sorry. Your guitar only knows one chord, white Stratocaster making everyone bored. Open my chest, show the crowd my mess, and then demand adulation. Your heart's scared of the dark, I'm not as wholesome as your fictions are. A dark room was the ideal tomb for me to bury my body. Your guitar plays its single tune, like it was all too much and all too soon, but this just isn't really working out. I'm sorry.