Your hips are swaying , and your eyes are saying that you need two gamblers for this game you're playing. And I might want you, yeah, but I don't need you. And you won't sleep in my bed, anymore. It seemed like a dead-end - even when I was seven - to sing for this country with your hands up to heaven. 'Cause God was dead then and he's never coming back again and I don't think about, anymore. It's a gamble and your fingers burn from the last time that you flew and bled and the shadows that you walk around will still be there when the sun goes down. Venus Flytrap. Twenty years now. The chance is just as fat as a union bureaucrat that the life you wanna live ain't the one you're looking at. There's more risk in a brain-cell than any Vegas hotel when you can't find the pit boss, anywhere.