my shield of wood and wire, of your twang , i often tire... this conversation we tend to rehash; this conversation of infected rhythms and spoiled notes we tend to always rehash. we have nothing new to offer. we have nobody new to inspire. we will pretend in order to feed an addiction to attention. an addiction to false admiration and ice-breaking moments of awkwardness. will you ever speak to me the way we spoke in the blue room filled with promise and smoke? will you ever again rattle my ribs reminiscent of the days your steel strands were four, not six; before your voice was lazy and sick? we had an understanding. we have an understanding. i cant ignore you. you are everywhere i glance(sometimes inadequate for play, sometimes missing your teeth, only half-offering cooperation.) changing colors! changing shapes! pluck, pluck. hate, hate. my shield of wood and wire, of your twang i often tire... shall we sink to the deep stench of mold and spilled beer, and spilled years. shall we fake another ballad of spilt fear. shall we note the wall for its unusual consistancy of failed accomplishments. a wall of come'rs-and-go'ers, of deceitful promise-breakers, of strangers and reptilian manglers? hack, hack. my shield of wood and wire, your protection ill always desire... my shield of wood and wire, your dilection ill always desire... my shield of wood and wire, of your twang i often tire.