There's a wine stain on the carpet
And your bourbon-broken voice
Says - this isn't me through a Marlboro haze
Crawling up the fire escape
With blood in your hair
Nothing fast or smooth about this little trip
So you murdered your youth late last night
With the Waterford lamp
And a shelf full of trophies
Escaped in a limousine
Where to? the driver said
And really that's the question
Where to now
When it's your mother in the mirror
And you're knocking over chairs
Is this what you wanted?
A bloody smear of greasepaint
Tearing through the backdrop
Do you know what time it is?
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