Michelle and I sit in a bar
A bar really far
A bar really really far

We sit and talk about the future us
We sit and talk about the current us
And though it's a little bit scarry
And thought it's a little bit harry

All is well

My life has become empty
My existence is so vapid
Were it not for Michelle I would be empty
Seven months in New York
Not a single task accomplished
My drive has been destroyed

I'm really drunk and really low
Good thing this isn't rock 'n roll,
It'd really blow

I love my girl
I need more to drink
I need to stop now

America's favorite ketchup can't be found in the Heinz 57.
It's the one night stand where a man can do the dip and the woman can get over her ex by the light of the moon.
Some say it doesn't exist, and some say it does… not that anyone knows first hand.
Like two pigeons stopping their scavenging for one moment of appreciation and/or insemination, people come together to ride the couch leather like a cowboy loves a horse and vice-versa.
It may exist or it may not, one can't really say, but I hope to find the positive one another day.

I find I'm lost in the bar amidst the butts the beer and the boobs.
Like an empty glass floating in an empty vapid space, I wait to be filled.
Yet there's nothing in this bar, nothing but the beer, boobs and babes.
So she smiles the smile, the wily, "I'm sexy" smile while I sit in my space and sulk.
There's nothing here for me yet I can't pull away. It must have something to do with the beer, the boobs, and the babes.

The leather pants, like a second skin, cling.
They cling, they hold, define and cling.
The girl is debatably pretty, but her shape is defined by her clothes and while I merely smile, she frowns like an unhappy clown who can't fool the crowd with all the looks and such she can muster.
In much the same way a scorned puppy is sad, so is she as she weaves through the crowd for that attention she shall never receive and my eye tears, but not for her rather the life wasted upon reaching the sad little point on which she now dances.