We're hedonists.
We lay here on this couch
All day and most of the night.

It's old, older than you and older than me
And it's got this awful floral-print cover
That's stained with coffee and wine and cigarette burns
And love and angst and grief.

And we put what we want in our bodies
And they grow flabby and pale
And our love never had a chance
So why won't it die?

And when I was too drunk to stand up anymore
You used to carry me up the stairs
To our big old bed with ratty sheets and mismatched pillows.
Tonight we stay on the couch;
We're both high on this cheap horrible ****.
I think it's laced with something, something bad.
And you won't carry me up the stairs
Because there's music on the ceiling
And it's got skinny black legs.

You were made for this life, my rough and rotten.
I could have been anything.
And you're a self-proclaimed anarchist.
I know you're nothing but a sloth.
But I love you more than words can say
And we lay here on the couch all night
And **** three times
And you tell me it doesn't get any better than this.