Secret, secret, box inside another, you've become too hard to look after: why bother?
I want to talk to sort things out; you're so unclear. Scream at a tortoise, you're already slow, gosh, now don't hide in fear.
Most of the time the small creature inside is asleep, but once I'm weak I'm not hard to beat, this little thing so hard to keep.
It makes me drunk, all my talking: stopping is a pain, being soft is a pain, being cute is a pain, appearing decent is a pain.
Fuck, just say it already. Or maybe I'm the one who should talk. Or maybe you don't have any 'it' for me.
I'm stuck with only you as help.
I'll keep on swearing, as is.
