This week's cash
For last week's grass
Your crew collates
While you sit in the van and wait

Gassed and trashed and smashed
Your cad's roasting away
So, on a sunny summer day, or, okay
An August night anyway

And you're living on air
While on the 25th floor up there
They fan a million bucks before your face
Marie's passed out in a chair
With her once fussed over hair
All mussed into an I've-just-been-fucked shape
Just an hour before she crashed
All cashed
She said "I'm done with looking back
And you look your age
Which is 37, by the way
And not 28
Fucking let them stare
Cause at this point, I don't care
I have been your bride stripped bare since '98
And our silver screen affair
It weighs less to me than air
It's a gas now, it's a laugh just how far several mil' can take it"

This week's fast is last week's flash of interstate
When you starved and never ate
This week's splashed a sickle cast across your face
As you roam on silk, we'll tippy-toe alone through silver lake
As you stride a snow white mare
On a non-stop all-night tear
What a ghastly sight you'll smear in every face
In that fat, fur-trimmed affair
That your lawyer lets you wear
You'll destroy your chance to ever get repeatedly engaged