I'm in a meat-pack plant by the gutterside

A slaughterhouse apartment with a slice of lime

I'm cruisin' with the bruisers

Boozin', I'll be a suitor, losing my mind

Because there's nothing to find

The fetid stench of bad intentions hangs in the sweat

I'm in a sauna hot with drama and I'm tryin' to forget

All the masochistic rapture missteps

Imminent pleasure's ready to cut to the bone

You said, "let loose, " but now you're lost

While I tied my boots like a tightrope noose

The problem chased the taste of the cause

While the evidence supports the truth

Is eighty enough proof for you?

Here's to my lady and I'm coming inside

Drink to me baby, and what's left of what's right

It's easier to use and lose than never to have used you

On a fucked-up Saturday night

Good times

On Front Street