On the way back from the bar he felt some semblance of a former self
This novel will not write itself, however he may play it
Deep inside the drawing room, three sisters entertain his crew
Romanticize a morbid doom, the children at his feet
There is not a taxi cab in sight
To rescue me from Petersburg tonight

Daily he would read the news, tie up his busted walking shoes
Take the train somewhere else and count his money there
Servants in the servants den spit in the food they cook for him
And rattle off a list of men they favor more than me
But even in maniacal delight
They will not shine a smile into the night

I don't think you're understanding me
There will no be pulling out of rug from underneath your feet
I fall in like the fruit beneath the tree
Ripe for you to eat