I called the dispatcher.
She hung up on me.
She knew I didn’t want to be saved.
Figured I was lost, just looking for a voice.
I called a couple more times she told me not to each time.
I begged her to stay on the line, she said she had to go.
I cut myself open wide, with a black ink pen.
Told her I needed help, and I begun to cry.
She said I would be just fine, and that she wasn't a god.
That I needed to use that pen to write it down, not to get along.
She told me her job was to help the wounded, get them help.
I told her I was wounded, could she make me melt?
She promised that I would be just fine.
Cut the conversation, drew the line.
I write to my dear dispatch lady, never taking up her time,
for the line is mean't for those in need.
And my pen does us both just fine.