This week's cash for last week's grass your crew collates
|
While you sit in the van and wait
|
Gassed and trashed and smashed young cads roasting away
|
So, on a sunny summer day (or, okay, an August night anyway)
|
And you're living on air, while on the 25th floor up there
|
They'd fan a million bucks before your face
|
Marie's passed out in a chair, with her once fussed-over hair
|
All mussed into an I've-just-been-fucked shape
|
|
Just an hour before she crashed, all cashed
|
She said "I'm done with looking back, and you look your age-
|
Which is 37, by the way, and not 28-
|
Fucking let them stare, 'cause at this point I don't care
|
I have been your bride stripped bare since '98
|
And our silver screen affair, it weighs less to me than air
|
It's a gas now, it's a laugh just how far several mil can take it
|
|
This week's as fast as last week's flash of interstate
|
When you starved and never ate
|
This week's splashed a sick, gold cast across your face
|
As you roam on silk, ripped tippy-toe alone through Silverlake-
|
Splayed astride a snow white mare
|
On a non-stop all-night tear
|
What a ghastly sight you smear in every face
|
In that fat, fur-trimmed affair
|
That your lawyer lets you wear
|
You'll destroy your chance to ever get repeatedly engaged
|
|
-----------------
|
You Can't Hold The Hand Of A Rock And Roll Man
|
Okkervil River |