Keep the noise low, She doesn’t want to blow it.
Shaking head to toe while your left hand does "the show me
around"
Quickens your heartbeat, It beats me straight into the ground
You don’t recover from a night like this.
A victim, still lying in bed - completely motionless.
A hand moves in the dark to a zipper.
Hear a boy bracing tightagainst sheets barely whisper,
"This is so messed up."
Upon arrival the guests had all stared,
Dripping wet and clearly depressed, he'd headed straight for the
stairs.
No longer cool, but a boy in a stitch.
Unprepared for a life full of lies and failing relationships.
(Up the stairs, the station where the act becomes the art of
growing up.)
He keeps his hands low,
He doesn't wanna blow it.
He's wet from head to toe, and his eyes give her the up and the
down.
His stomach turns, and he thinks of throwing up
But the body on the bed beckons forward, and he starts growing
up.
The fever, the focus,
The reasons that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell.
The tickle, the taste of...
It used to be the reason I breathe,
but now it's choking me up.
Die young and save yourself.
She hits the lights,
This doesn't seem quite fair.
Despite everything he learned from his friends, he doesn't feel
so prepared.
She's breathing quiet and smooth,
He is gasping for air.
"This is the first and last time", he says
She fakes a smile, and presses her hips into his.
He keeps his hands pinned down at his sides.
He's holding back from telling her exactly what it really feels
like.
He is the lamb, she is the slaughter.
She's moving way too fast, and all he wanted was to hold her.
Nothing that he tells her is really having an effect.
He whispers that he loves her, but she's probably only looking
for...
(Up the stairs, the station where the act becomes the art of
growing old.)
So much more than he could ever give,
A life full of lies and meaningful relationships.
He keeps his hands pinned down at his sides,
He waits for it to end and for the aching in his gut to subside.
The fever, the focus,
The reason that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell.
Die young and save yourself.
The tickle, the taste of
It used to be the reason that I breathed,
but now it's choking me up.
Die young and save yourself.
Up the stairs, the station where the act becomes, the art of
growing old.
The fever, the focus,
The reason that I had to believe you weren't too hard to sell.
Die young and save yourself.
The tickle, the taste of
It used to be the reason that I breathed,
but now it's choking me up.
Die young and save yourself.
| 
| 
