"One for the pain,
two to make it go away."
He says as he washes
his benzos down
with whiskey.
He doesn't want to
wake up the next day,
'cause ever since twenty-seven
life's gone downhill.
A tall Japanese woman
stands beside him,
and takes the plunge, too.
Follows it with whiskey.
Always follow with whiskey.
Her marriage is
falling apart,
and ever since twenty-seven
life's gone downhill.
He tried to leave, once,
with a heroin overdose:
"That damn bitch of
a girlfriend had
to save my life."
He tattooed DNR on
both wrists
because of that bitch.
He tugs on the
Japanese gal's skirt;
even looming suicide
doesn't slake his piggish lust.
She slaps his hand
and stands on the
other side of the
room, arms crossed.
"Ya know,
standing like that
makes yer tits
look bigger."
She walks into the
kitchen and drinks
more whiskey;
that bastard's the reason
for her life's steady decline.
They drive, fully hammered,
to a beach blanketed with fog.
They build, fully hammered,
a bonfire; gotta burn it all!
They sit, fully hammered,
waiting for sleep to hit;
that final slip into oblivion
with a heavy sinking lull.
He can't speak without a slur;
she can't see without a blur.
He can't stand without a wobble;
she can't stand without a topple.
His eyelids grow heavy;
his breath starts to slow.
Her breath isn't steady;
her lungs hardly grow.
Good-night, old friends.
Good-bye.