Rocky Has No Thumbs

I took another shower, 
so not to jinx romance 
with a smelly face, 
and some bad breath. 

I showed up in my party shoes, 
I was gonna dance. 
Though I couldn't help to be a third wheel— 
an insecure obstacle, 
bottom heel loaf of week-old moldy bread. 

I'm insecure, 
I am lame. 
A punk rock caricature 
with no game. 
An adolescent stuck, 
busted up 74' Chevrolet. 

When I left, I hung my head. 
It was word vomit, 
every word I said. 
I got too stoned, 
talked too much. 
You couldn't get away fast enough. 

You were on the run, 
surfing couch cushions, 
while Rocky mean mugged me with suspicion. 

He stared at me all night, 
I knew he wanted to kick my ass. 
But he's got no thumbs 
and probably just anxious to lick his ass. 

I'm insecure, 
I am lame. 
A punk rock caricature 
with no game. 
An asshole stuck, 
vapor locked 74' Chevrolet 
(and I wouldn't have me any other way). 

I couldn't get a word in, 
and you're really not much fun. 
Thank you for the leftovers, 
but I'm gonna cut and run. 

We'll always have The Penguin, 
his crooked grin in that old, dim den. 
We'll find someone new 
for talk and swoon. 

Here's to busted Chevys
and party shoes.