point my finger, cock my thumb. bang bang! dropping lead in your face. whisper-thin in my hand. iron hot & heavy. & i don't feel like lady gotham is turning her fairest face to me. i ply her with spells & she bats her eyelashes. i shouldn't sound sour, as i'm not. but my sweetest words & dweomers are fizzling & falling sparkling back to the ground. the flare shoots up, bursts, & dwindles. fold me up in your circuitry, ma! i shouldn't sound bitter, i'm not. i'm grapes & gripes. & probably a little transplanting the sadness of jenny onto miss metropolis. which, when you facet it over to there, makes this whole screed sound kind of silly. i'm sorry dear babylon, your kisses are sweet & i'll wait in your arms for all my bullets to come back to me. bang, bang.