Well it feels like I spend most my time cleaning wine off of shirt fronts you spilled while you're nervous. Well I'm not quite a saint, but I might have a prayer if you put in a word for me at my canonization. I know the Pope and I know he knows transubstantiation when he sees it and he sees blood when he's loosening buttons from your shirt front. In the night, near the end, when you yawned with your arms: you reached like a radio tower. Well the buzz and the hum of the night in your room was you sending out casting calls for doctors who will swear you're contagious. I'm not going away. I'm not going away. Every time you see me it's twilight and tragic. You're sick of seeing snow and tuning in static. You're just an empty threat or two away from a crackup. You pray that it passes. His Holiness can be so very persuasive.
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