Convertible

The sound of tearing might wake the neighbors up
But how else am I supposed to get you off me
You've been writing my own clichs
And isn't it cute how apathy makes everyone smile
Somebody please help this man he looks nearly dead
Hacksaw in hand and a new convertible head
"I had to feel something, or die trying"
This one last inevitably written clich
Edged with irony seems to have left us both
With one truth: "the beast cannot live without host"
So without thought, starve sycophant
I'll never believe you when you say everythings ok