The chills

You wrote the notes on cellophane
Wrap me up and suffocate my ears
Follow second hands ticking repetition
Dressing up for pop pesimism
It's a chokehold ticket to a one man show
The critics were raving
I didn't bother to go
Masses of martyrs in the wrong ticket line
I watch comedy classics because they're better than mine
I poison myself to find a cure
I manufacture sliding doors
And novacain sells me short
I poison myself to find a cure
I manufacture closing doors
I work in the factory where I was born