The Surgeon

A forest of tongues rooted deep in their sockets dry, silence
An army of eyes gazing round for some flaw to spy, violence
Twenty-five grand to reattach a retina (in a) furnace
Twenty-five and out, and all the good it's getting you, burn this

I'm a pro, I'm a surgeon
Ice-cold veins, keep on working
White-hot pain, feel nothing at all

The time I burned the armrest in the Mustang with a cigarette, junked it
The test that they gave to see if you were feeling it, flunked it
The latest in a series of biggest disappointments yet, waitress
Finally get it right, and there's no one left to witness it, hate this