Who’ll make the call
With our last bit of sense?
There’s no one home
Though beyond the fence,
There’s a demon
With an orange, ratty face.
He’s disappeared,
But with a trace.
D’ya got this?
C’mon... c’mon
Skim milk twist
Our cups are full —
Right to the brim.
We’ve chewed the fat
Till we’re all grim.
Love’s got a way
Of holding me in my place:
I’m not talking ‘bout the facts (anymore)
I’m talking ‘bout the case.