The Piss and Graffiti Reprieve

I'm gone with the wind
Like a freight-train or a graceless arc of piss
And if it looks like rain from your window
Don't come to my door for help
I'll be gone fishing into the abyss
For an ampersand to suffix my name
And a new drug that'll fix this game
Because I only win when it's rigged
And I only break-down when I've had a fix
of watching the moon melt onto the ghettos
To the soundtrack of clicking stilettos
Zip-bap-boo sideways glance
I loosened my tie when the tramp crooned
I haven't a chance at the evening's romance
But I ask her anyways
For my last first dance
She says, looking at my shoes, "No thanks"

And so, not to cause a scene
I sit tight in my corvette and wait for the green
While reaching for the bottle
Beneath my seat
But it slid beneath the throttle
I kick like a mule when the amber flashes
The car jolts forward and the bottle smashes
It sounds like a symbol crescendo in the jazz-bar
Home can't be far
as the morning's lighting up
I'll stub my last bent cigarette into a polystyrene cup
Looking for a place that makes its coffee strong
                enough to defend itself against spousal abuse
But a smudge on my cheek, a smidge and a fraction
That jolts me to the bone, lifts me above the throng
Where I can calm my nerves with a gentle old song
And think, whether I like it or not,
Bing Crosby smacked his kids around a lot
Unconsciously touching the scar on my cheek
I begin to think of all those other weeks
where I said my life was turning round
but it just turned out I was running aground
And my only consolation for the pain in my liver
Is that a warm cup of coffee will cure my shivers
Bitter and sweet, will be the coffee
Like an onion on Halloween covered in toffee
                That's one way to make your children cry, Bing

Still stroking the scar on my cheek-bone
I hear the register jingle and let out a groan
As I hand over the last $2 I have in my pocket
I would have sold my grandmother's locket
If she had a locket, for more coffee
To wire my brain back to my eye-sockets
 
I would've traded my mother's lavaliere
                If she had one
for a caffeine hit or another cold beer
And I thought of Bing
Smacking his kids
But the bastard could sing
Behind the counter the telephone rings
and it's Becky; she knows I'm here
because it's where I always end up
With a headache, a heartache,
A stack of greasy pancakes or a chipped coffee-cup
 
It's either jingle-bells or pitter-patter I hear
So, she says she aint angry
She knows she's been unfair
And after I bought her the clothes that she wears
And the tear on my cheek gives way for a tear
As I tell her I spent my money on coffee and beer
She says, it's all alright
We always get by
And all that sunshine in my day and the apple of my eye
Is spewed,
And we both know that kind of talk is trash
But sentiments are all we have after we spend the cash
 
I'm telling her I'll be home soon
And that the phone-bill is running up
I swallow the last cold dregs from my cracked coffee cup
And decide to leave the car behind
Because the traffic is picking up
and I'm still half-blind
Two little boys spit on a homeless man
And I think to myself maybe Bing had it right

But I hum half the back catalogue of Andy Williams
And mutter Groucho's lines of utter brilliance
Because the day seems like all it needs is a stranger's smile
And I know I'll be home in just a while

As I rue my alma matter, and the almanac shatters
I still have a shard of glass lodged in my boot
It's been another night of playing games
And the games people play are always afoot

I won't write you no more notes, Becky
     So, stop with all the crying
I've found punctured comfort in pregnant pauses,
Falling down stairs, spitting out teeth on Tuesday nights, trying
     and trying
     and trying

To reconcile with you, my tramp, my love, my discotheque chatte,
My nightmare, my death inevetably, my bride to be
     I promise I won't write you no more notes, Becky