The more expensive the couch, the more costly the tears
The dirtier the mouth, the more broken the words
The more desperate I feel
There's always the screaming of white noise machines
There's always a table full of shitty magazines
And there's always the feeling, I'll never get clean
Still I keep talking
And they keep sending me the bill
The more attractive the face, the more useless the hour
The tackier the clothes, the more distant the growth
The more hateful I feel
I can smell the breath of every patient who was here before me
I can feel the hurt of every patient who was here before me
Still I keep talking
And they keep sending me the bill