Losing all bets with the night, the whiskey
Doesn’t cut it. Willows sway above the bodega
Crying their asses off, sunset retreats.
The exploration of the senses whips our asses
Into gear against a wall insulated from suffering.
Meanwhile a warning comes over the wireless:
Fuck with the people who deserve it, that's right,
Yeah. But what are we, then, how much bullshit
Can we be expected to smile at? I mean really.
I mean really.
And now look, the heavens are rocked
And polluted by the storm of the senses.
We cry for a sign at a stoplight
Surrounded by idiots and babbling devices.
O let me stay at least one step ahead
Of the whiskey and the worry, and lose
What I don't choose in joy.
Later I'm alone. Everything is ugly as shit.
It's all a cartoon, you had explained it that way,
Anyway, going into the other room.