No one here to set me free

zephyr

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

You snort very loudly at the notion of being well-liked, but make no comment on the statement. This isn't about you defending your carefully maintained and quickly deteriorating facade of grizzled no-fucks-given unlikability, and you're too tired to argue that point.

Taking another sip of the water Sam so generously provided (you'll thank him in the morning, you know; for now you're still a bit miffed), you wait for whatever next doozy he's going to drop, and almost groan when it comes. Closing your eyes in a clear act of gods give me strength, you raise a hand to rub the bridge of your nose.

"That ain't the point, Red," you sigh out with some exasperation, suddenly very much exhausted. "Whatever it feels like- it ain't gonna be enough. It ain't gonna fix th'hole ya feel. An' expectin' it to- it's fuckin' cruel t'the people who do love ya."

Rising suddenly (and very unsteadily) to your feet, you stare down at Sam for a moment while the world spins. "An' actin' like people don' love ya 'less they do it th'way ya want us to? That's cruel too, Red."

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
But it's not that way, I wasn't born to lose you