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West of Rome |
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Just east of the border in a staticy |
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Ramada Inn |
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Polishing his boots and pummelin' his liver |
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Steeped in his dark isolation |
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Just what business does, he have around here |
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Credentials are wearing out with each little bit of cheer |
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Yes, it's a bad scene we're convening |
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Brushin' his teeth and milkin' his ulcer |
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Preparing to waste another wily mornin' |
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Strokin' himself and phoning up his sister |
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He tells her their life would make one whale of a movie |
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Yes, a childhood full of dry goods and wet neglect |
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The father they now sponge off of |
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They have no absorbin' respect |
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Yes, he's a glad boy to have such a void |
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Yes, he's a martyr crawling across cobble stones |
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From his cozy cottages, just west of |
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Rome Yes, it's a sad state for great sufferin' |
