When her body gave into that sickness again 
(she always knew it would), 
She didn't want to say a thing for fear 
That if he knew, he'd never risk 
Getting even this close to her. Fever 
Has made her shameless. She's desperate to infect, 
And she'd kill to hear him moan with misery, 
Burning sweet, keeping her [bad word] with his, 
Bowels twisted from that seductive disease. 
Some [bad word] spreads with a secret contagion, 
And you'll either be fascinated or repulsed 
By the velocity of defeat. 

Tell me, doctor, are you giving up? 
Yes, I know [bad word] [bad word]  
Show me a credible witness 
To the existence of a functional love
Or even just a functional [bad word]  
Doctor, are you giving up on me? 
Don't you see it's each other we need? 
You're the [bad word] and it seems I just might be 

[bad word]  neither one of us satisfied 
Until I'm writhing. And I overheard them say, 
"Our guinea pigs are in for it; 
We're straining day and night to find the origin 
Of this mutant strain, 
Once microscopic, now epidemic, 
Which crawled its way into her brain." 
She didn't ask for it, but she's passing it 
To everybody she meets. 
And it might not be the most pleasurable thing, 
But the sensation can be so addicting. 

He won't surrender. His system guards against 
The potential agony. But he will never realize that, 
Consequently, he's missing out on the ecstasy. 
He won't surrender. His system protects him against me. 

Well, it wasn't caused by amphetamines, 
But his dopamine levels are unquestionably depleting, 
And my favorite hypochondriac is starting to display 
Symptoms of hysterical paralysis. 
All the doctors can say is, "there's nothing physically amiss." 
Isn't it ironic? I'm the [bad word]  
But now it seems he just might be immune to what I inflict.