Key Biscayne, where the colours are the same as they were in the dress of the lady I left there.
just like Italy or grand Paris or any other place with other mothers, daughters.
Cut to the bone, we always fall alone, that’s why I never call them back the morning after.
Just straighten my tie, and never leave a sign, and don’t respond with anything but laughter
When they ask who I am I say “My dear, I wouldn’t want to lie.” When they say I’ve betrayed them I tell them I was never on their side
Nevada, where the summers are raw, and the heat does not escape my silk and cotton.
Stains of blood and sweat, go dripping down my hand, and fall onto the thirsty sand like rain.
Cut to the bone, we always die alone, that’s why I never bother to recall their name.
Just straight my tie, shake my head and sigh, right before the arrow hits my brain.
And if they ask who I am I say “Gentlemen, I wouldn’t want to lie.” And when they say I’ve betrayed them I tell them I was never on their side I was never on their side
In the Boston slums I found somebody numb, someone with and endless heart of patience. And I felt sick, at all the fights I picked, the things I’d done to all her many sons.
And if she asks who I am I’ll say “I’m nobody, I’m nothing, I’m anon.” And if she begs me to say I’ll say “I’m sorry dear, but I must be along.”