Drinking bottles of Guinness
"Only socially, I can't stand the stuff"
Fatality in the finesse
Of 'classiness' and *****.

Smoky rooms and jazzy tunes
A cigar hanging from the lips
Fatality in the finesse
Of small talk and swaying hips.

Winehouse's drawl pours from the speakers
That are modern in their vintage style
Fatality in the finesse
Of hidden grimaces and fake smiles.

Every conversations the same
In it's lack of personality
Fatality in the finesse
Of sociability.

O dear Morpheus, for thy rest be no disturbance in thee?
For thy sole ideas be neither order nor structure in flow?
Fear I sense for thy sacrèd inmost sanctum closes its eye.

I know of a girl who dreads the New Year
Because it steals her away
from poodle-skirts and telephones
And all that is long gone
Drags her across the floor by her ankles
while she sobs
as though she'd known the era's
dead.