Death Blow
Mirror in the bathroom,
this makes no sense.
Like the glass top table
in the room I rent,
or my credit card
with numbers white as snow,
the straw cut down
an eighth its size.
Our love affair is growing old
but I know you're in control.
She don't lie, she don't lie,
She don't lie to you,
so Clapton says,
but we both know
you're my only friend,
and with you I'll wind up dead.
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