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It's a cigarette sparking on a wet summer street
And overhead, the skies are grey
With the storm clouds that pour off the dead summer heat
And show the dirty blue of the day
The houses are sleeping off a weekend of heaven
And dirty old men kiss their wives
As they hold close beside them; it's six, come seven
And they dead on the last day of their lives.
Upstairs, there's an old man watching T.V.
And masturbating into a sock.
It's the last time he'll get off, and then he'll be free
Of this world, come seven o'clock.
The weekend before,
He slept with a whore
Who gave him herpes and the time of his life,
But he'll never realize
By the time that he dies
That his last time out was last night.
Now he's sipping a shot of bourbon and coke.
He got drunk on it, and now he's hung over.
This time it's slowing his heart and he starts to choke,
Then his eyes close like zippers forever.
Next door there's a kid with a new motorbike
With muddied spokes and a leather seat
That he took out to race on this Saturday night
Doing ninety on the empty streets.
At two o'clock, he got back home
To a girlfriend who was fat as a whale,
And tonight as they're fucking, he'll let out a groan
And stop breathing, start twitching, go pale.
His girlfriend'll ask him, "So how did it feel?"
But his lips will have moved the last time,
And as blood flecks his spittle from internal injuries
The darkness will take over his mind.
His girlfriend'll scream, try to wake him up,
And when she can't she'll go crazy, start crying.
She's scramble frantically to call the cops
And turn back to a love that's dying.
And the embers die on the last cigarette
In my pocket, and I'm broke as a fuck,
And I'm all out of liquer, but there's this thing in my head
Like a tragedy of streetside luck.
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