I would never near someone of my stature
to say, "I've got drugs and it don't even matter
if you have money now or at the hotel.
(I hope your night has been going well.)
Only seven dollars for a hit of mescalin...
It's the part of this town that's really a sin."
What is it about me that makes him feel okay
to approach me in the sunset on the street this way?
No mescalin for me, mister, thanks a lot.
This isn't a Phish concert, and I certainly am not
twenty one forever, nor even twenty seven:
I lost the fight, died, then came back home from heaven.
Which makes me three thousand and twelve years old.
Stupid child, you've already been bought and sold.
No comments:
Post a Comment