He lights a cigarette, compromises his health
Fresh lungs don’t matter in this neo-noir hell
Every day someone is murdered and forgotten
Until the corpse makes the streets smell rotten
“Help me, Walter Hollywood,” says the dame
Every transaction starts to all sound the same
An envelope of cash, smoke the last of the ash
Hope to god her lover isn’t thrown out like trash
But before he slings the questions around town
Obligatory sex scene with hushed moaning sounds
Almost makes the lover a complete afterthought
But there are bills to be paid, killers to be caught
Every fedora-wearing wise guy takes a swing
Until Walter’s eyes water, nose bleeds, ears ring
Anymore snooping and he’ll be full of bullets
Take his scalp until he’s only left with a mullet
Walter taps the dame up for a little more money
She laughs like his misery and bruises are funny
Admission of failure is just another part of the job
She winks one more time and turns the doorknob
Another body just washed up on the riverbank
Bricks around his ankles ensured that he sank
His face was so familiar despite the taped mouth
And the two black eyes and his nose cut out
Finding the lover was as easy as reading the paper
Nothing about this mystery made Walter feel safer
The money he was paid made him look like a hit man
Police would arrest him, lock him up with a big man
Capitalism made people do the weirdest things
Wait tables, scrub floors, stand on the streets and sing
Taking unclean money seemed like the way out
Why isn’t the dame’s freedom in any kind of doubt?
It’s a system that abuses everyone who struggles
Locks up the failures with big men who snuggle
Gangsters and politicians sip from a glass of wine
And every femme fatale continues to look so fine
No comments:
Post a Comment