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Now, forgive me, little one, I never quite learned how
The emotional progression of a love song sounds
And all my inclinations go the wrong way around, uh-uh
On the 7th of December's when you found your feet
Turning pirouettes on the downtown streets
And in your bed is where the heavens and the whorehouse meet, uh-uh

And you look so good on paper
You've got that perfect skin
But you do yourself no favors
When you stretch yourself so thin
Death nearly has its boots on
When it finally does
It may come for them, but it will never come for us
No, it will never come for us
Oh, will never come for us

And I believe I'll win you
And put you in your place
With a cat in every window
And a cake on every plate
And your syphilitic hipster bums call no, no, no
Then they turn left at the bedroom
And they wake up in their clothes

Well, everyone's an item, we should quit our jobs
And when they say that "you'll be sorry", we'll say "say no more"
You live your safe and happy life behind your concrete door, fuck off
But if we're gonna make it to the hour of 9
We'll need a dozen cigarettes and a gallon of wine
A seat before the ocean with the mountains behind, fuck off

But you look so good on paper
You've got that perfect skin
But you do yourself no favors
When you stretch yourself so thin
Death nearly has its boots on
Little it knows, we can't be killed
Not by fire, not by loneliness
No throbbing pains of guilt
No throbbing pains of guilt
No, no throbbing pains of guilt

And I believe I'll win you
And I will make you mine
With a duffel bag of money
And a bathtub full of wine
And your syphilitic hipster bums call no, no, no
Then they turn left at the bedroom
And they wake up in their clothes

Now, I believe I'd win you
If I could beat myself
While dusty rows of Kerouac
Grow spiders on my shelf

And I've borrowed all the bibles
From everyone I know
And I wipe my boots, and I read and root
For that poor, defenseless Job
Yes, I wipe my boots, and I read and root
For that poor, defenseless Job

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