Broken Rib [sean]

Sunk into the sweat-soaked spread of carpet on the floor,
When it’s good, I’m still left here mourning for more, for more.
And how do I explain—it’s the wine, it never tastes quite fine,
And the books don’t seem to hold any interest.
And the people don’t seem to hold any interest.
And the games don’t seem to hold any interest.
And the black dog saunters up again to bite the Hand that feeds,
He wraps his hand around my shoulder and whispers, “you get up off your knees,”
He says “Let’s paint a smile, let’s place a face on that disease.”
And I don’t get off my knees, but he never goes away; he just keeps coming and coming.
And I don’t get off my knees, but I never get a break;
He just kicks me in the gut again, and again, and takes my breath away.
With the smile made through gritted teeth, the ribs still cracked and sore,
It’s the case that when it’s good, I’m still left here mourning for more, for more.
The room fills up again—I wince, take an inoculation, and try to make some conversation.
But it’s the case that when it’s good, I’m still left here mourning for more, for more.
And the food doesn’t seem to hold any interest.
And the candles don’t seem to hold any interest.
And the sun doesn’t seem to hold any interest.
And nothing seems to hold any interest, but I keep pressing on for more, for More.