It seems to me as if your hunting never stops
your eyes are always darting, your armor never drops.
I get the sense from you that you’ve only had enough
of the game of romance after several proper thrusts.

Once upon that crime, you’re fine, you’ve dined on what you wished
so you can go jump in a lake for your own sake and fish
for newer sorts of promises, which you will never keep
and the latest of your quarry upon whom you will reap.

After all this time, is sex purposeless?
With the lights low, love gets dangerous.
Your deceit in the sheets leaves you traitorous
When the lights go low, love gets dangerous.

Your games will never end, will they? I don’t believe they will.
To you, I’ll always seem like prey. I wonder if you’ve had your fill.
Until we find the editor that simply flips your scripts,
you offer your expendable kiss from oppositional lips.

You just lie for love with snow jobs, flowing fibs to act the ho.
You know that fear of the foe makes you come and go so
you’ll never stop running away from these games you’ve been playing.
I just wish you were better, is all that I’m saying.

For you, and the hunt, love seems pointless.
When the lights go low, love is dangerous.
Your deceit in the sheets leaves you traitorous
With the lights low, love is dangerous.