Cellular

There's a television. There's a television speaking to me. There's a French girl On my television. She's crying in the palm of my hand. In moving metal, I read the paper with just a photo. I wrote one out with my pen. There's a massacre Across the o-, across the o-, across the ocean. I can see it in the palm of my Hand. Me hundo cada vez más hondo. Hello, the ground floor. Hello, is this the floor? The first connection. I left her dying. She was still crying, And now she's lying in my bed. A bucket full of rats, eyes still flying. Next to her bed where I'm rotting To the end. What Am I good for? What am I good for? I've got no signal. A banner to the voice in my head.