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They're more prepared to deal with pain perhaps |
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Than you could be in all your life's long years |
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The lazy lip of sea, it calmly laps |
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Beneath the looming disco's tens of tears |
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Or sure their fondest love is for a fake |
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An obviously fake contrived ideal |
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In hotels high above the foaming lake |
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Above bone plates he'd tie with lamb and veal |
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And breathing smoke since folded into air |
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And waving bills since spent on kid's grand schools |
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Some fat cat calculated it right there |
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The thing they'd turn so selflessly such tools |
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The polished plate betrays a vacant host |
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But they're more prepared to deal with pain than most |
