What is left of me sits burning in the bottom of this ashtray.   I'm an ugly mess, I'm full of it, and I'm a lame excuse for a poet.   It really all comes down to my love for misfortune.   A weak stomach and a mouthful of bad intentions.    Watch your mouth!   Cause I'm the son of a gun, tempt not one in love.   I live my life by a night stand bible from a motel in limbo.   I have a way with failure and I'm the poster child for giving up on you.   And this lack of belief is what leaves me room for loving you.   Relax, come on - relax and give in I was born to make you moan.   You let her climb inside your ribs and let her tangle herself up in your bones.   Don't think for a second, that she gives a damn.   It's a shame you try so hard just for a girl. Who doesn't know your name or care to remember.   And it's a shame I can't remember anything.   I can't even recall your taste or the monster that I became.   I've tasted death, it's graced my lips, I wanna give it back.   But I want you bad. I want you bad. You better watch your mouth, I'm the son of a gun