John Smith,
hell, even my dog knows that name,
he stumbles in like he’s somebody,
dressed up like he’s got something to lose,
but we both know he’s all broken down.
John Smith,
Who you bangin' tonight, huh?
Is it old, saggy Peggy?
That one-eyed wreck,
who’d hop on Freddy for a sip of cheep beer,
even though he’s softer than a boiled peach,
just a worn-out soul with no hope left.
John Smith,
what the hell you doin',
drunkenly trippin' through this hellhole fair,
tryin’ to sell that beat-up rooster?
He’s fried, man,
burnt to the bone –
can’t crow worth a damn,
just lets out a wheeze like a leaky tire.
John Smith,
shit, you and me – we’re the same,
twisted up, f***ed in the head.
We’ll drink the worst whiskey,
throw some fists and crash under a bush,
'cause nothing else makes sense
but the mess we’re in.
lost boys
© Copyright: Эл Стайнберг, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125050600039
Свидетельство о публикации №125050600039
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