Way out west, where he was born,
He is torn, pierced by a thorn.
And in the morning he'll show the world his horns,
And the world, it will ignore him.

And "I'm so worn out", said the man to his wife,
Clutching a poultry knife,
His face is snaking with strife.

And he told her that if he'd been older,
He might've been colder, maybe bolder,
But he sees what she's worth to him now,
Yes, he sees what she's worth to him now.

And he starts to cry on her shoulder,
And she, she pulls him closer,
And tells him that it's alright.
And as he cries is eyes grow colder,
And his pupils begin to smolder,
Cause the flame in them had died down,
Yes, the flame in them had died down.

And she, she pulls him closer,
And tells him that it's alright.
And she, she pulls him closer,
Closing his mouth with her lips.

And her eyes bloomed like roses,
And she touched his hands to her rose hips,
And spoke softly through halcyon rose lips,
Reassuring him of his wits.

And she told him they'd both be gone by morning.
They'd drive into the west,
And when they got to the top of the crest,
There together they'd rest,
Yes, there together they'd rest.

And the poor panicked boy is snoring,
Eased by the wind's constant roaring.
And the girl, she is sorting
The expressions on his face.

And I'm so worn out,
I believe in this fairy tale.
And I'm so worn out,
I believe her even if she isn't real.

And I know I'm a sucker for such bullshit,
Believe anything with love written on it.

And I'm so broken down,
Like flesh left on the edge of town,
Forgotten, festering, and frowned,
Forever unfound.