The Masochist

Call up the doctor my friend, I'm broken again

Just like Ms. Carfagna's jar on the shelf that just couldn't bend

I'm so overwhelmed when I'm going through I hell, I confess I'm slave to distress

I'm taking it right on the chin and I thrive in that mess

I smile to the doctor, say sir does this bus have more room

'Cause all of the ambulance rides are just more time with you

I stare at those marks on the wall, you know, the ones that you drew

Where we'd keep an injury score all bordered by shrooms

Now, I'm just the type to grow up but still poke at the bruise

Hoping it stays to remind me of days that I knew