In a small room with the door locked, an attempt to keep your heart stopped* You couldn't talk, they called a professional. So ostentatious, you puffed, they blew your manhood up like a big blowfish. You took to the roles you were reawakened with, And stepped to the light with a new set of fears, Though it's not over until the blowfish squeals. When I found you, you were dry heaving in front of the mirror, Stripped down and screaming. You said you'd cut your appendage if it meant you'd never hurt again. You couldn't have what you never wanted. How could they say that this could be good for anyone, When anybody could see the cause for alarm in the scars in your arms? No, it's not over until the fat fish sings.