oh well he's
still looking for his Mary
dressed in black, a vice
for him (or a grip)
with smoke curling
out of her ears, ready
to take him away, he ain't
no devil but he sure as hell
looking for the woman herself
with hips swinging always loaded
made fresh in the Rye factories
a tall glass but she always empty
he's lookin' for them girls to fill,
that have followed him 'round
since 2010--least that's what she said
the ground is hard, packed and trodden
but that's where she is, curled up in
florals and denim, she still
burnt as the core of a fire
and they always go out
you've seen it, woken
up in the morning
with crumpled tin
buried in white ash
and wood so black
it just crumbles.