Drunk driving on the high road, a waste of high I.Q.
Fortune’s fancy fool with an elitist point of view
He sits in his darkened storefront smoking stale cigarettes
Counting broken dreams and regrets
Pothead prima donna aged before his time
Placing all the pieces in a paranoid paradigm
Laying blame and discontent, counting some of each
Still worships love as long as it is out of reach
Always a reason to return by default
To the ugliness he thinks he is
Always another woman to exalt
As long as she’s not his
Now wallowing in the gutter of Pathos Avenue
Soon as he becomes uncertain, pulls the curtain on you