The haze of coffin nails and the scent of liquid nerve
Swirl through the vacant garden rows
The verb coils warm as the check, check, checker
Reigns in his ersatz troubadour clothes

The ivory is stale as [bad word] Chestnut roots and fifths bled dry
The tired minstrel turns out uninspired words
Of hope and change and other statist lies

Cue the garbled sketch of an overpass arena
Where Rooster croons for an audience of two
Passing pairs of headlights make for transient marquees
And the stars guide his fingers in [bad word] twelve-bar blues

They start with pilfered wives, then slide to maudlin sighs
For his only son who married a machine
He flails his head about as his voice grows loud
But [bad word] to mind for the turnaround

So he says whoa whoa whoa whoa, don't wanna settle down

Left with the slurred advice "don't depend on anyone,"
I slowly nod, but purge it from my brain,
Assure myself that it's too late, it's too late for that
And hope to all that's holy that won't change