i'm pretending to be naked, hands firmly on your hips
my love in the meat grinder of twenty five percent tips
did the red of the wine or the oil of the mussel
play a part in the hustle of taking away my money and soul
i have your number, i have your lips
but i know i'll be too busy to call

life is a bitch, from the dry-mouth of evening to the moist blanket of dawn
milking the cows, watching the porn
shaving the bluntness off the favorite horn
full of brothels and paperback novels
about fantastic lovers thanks to whom an unwanted child was born

i've been warned