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days of the weekit's monday morning and the coffee's on the brill the sun's a warning, sending signals to the moon i rise and fall in my accustomed rusted habits i cant believe myself and i can hardly stand it anymore it's tuesday morning i file my nails and wash my hair you're still sleeping like i'm hardly even there the smell of tangerines are floating through the window i wonder if someday i'll turn into your widow or your maid it's wednesday morning i think you may have tried to cheat i smell the perfume on the inside of your sleeve i must admit i know i can be uite obsessive i get dramatic and i'm ready to confess it to the lord it's thursday morning i could be pregnant; could be bored i want to love you i want to be the staple sword we might be out of soap or real communication and all the tricks my little brain plays on my nerves they need to end it's friday morning thank god the weekend's almost here let's get some breakfast and get far away from here so i can tell you that i am a secret agent who's stationed in a small hotel in southeast asia but that's a lie, you know i've never even been there i tend to get real bored with my own head and try to make you care.