Now forgive me, little one
I never quite learnt how
The emotional progression
Of a love song sounds
And all my inclinations
Go the wrong way around, uh-huh

On the 7th of December is when you found your feet
Turning pirouettes on the downtown street
And in your bed is where the heavens and the whore house meet

And you look so good on paper
You've got that perfect skin
But you do yourself no favors
When you stretch yourself so thin
? Death near has its boots on
When it finally does
It may come for them, but it will never come for us
No, it'll never come for us
Oh, it'll never come for us

And I believe I'll win you
And put you in your place
With a cat (?) in every window
And a cake on every plate
And your syphilitic hipster bums call, "No, no, no!"
Then they turn left at the bedroom
And they wake up in their clothes
Well, everyone's an item
We should quit our jobs
And when they say that you'll be sorry
We'll say, "Say no more!"
You live your safe and happy life
Behind your concrete door, fuck off
But if we're going to make it to the hour of nine
We'll need a dozen cigarettes and a gallon of wine
A seat before the ocean with the mountains behind, fuck off

But you look so good on paper
You've got that perfect skin
But you do yourself no favors
When you stretch yourself so thin
Death near has its boots on
And it knows we can't be killed
Not by fire, not by loneliness, no throbbing pains of guilt
No throbbing pains of guilt

No, no throbbing pains of guilt

And I believe I'll win you
And I will make you mine
With a duffel bag of money
Ad a bathtub full of wine
And your syphilitic hipster bums call, "No, no, no!"
Then they turn left at the bedroom
And they wake up in their clothes
Now, I believe I'll win you
If I could beat myself
While dusty rows of Kerouac (?)
Grow spiders on my shelf

And I've borrowed all the Bibles
From everyone I know
And I wipe my boots, and I read and root
For that poor, defenseless Job
Yes, I wipe my boots, and I read and root
For that poor, defenseless Job