You Can't Hold the Hand of a Rock and Roll Man

This week's cash for last week's grass your crew collates
While you sit in the van and wait
Gassed and trashed and smashed, young cads roasting away
On a sunny summer day or, okay, an August night anywayAnd you're living on air, while on the 25th floor up there
They'd fan a million bucks before your face
Marie's passed out in a chair with her once fussed-over hair
All mussed into an I've just been fucked shapeJust an hour before, she crashed, all cashed
She said, I'm done with looking back, and you look your age
Which is thirty-seven, by the way, and not twenty-eightAnd fucking let them stare because at this point I don't care
I have been your bride stripped bare since 98
And our silver-screen affair, it weighs less to me than air
It's a gas now, it's a laugh, just how far several mil can take itThis week's fast as last week's flash of interstate
When you starved and never ate
This week's splashed a sick, gold cast across your face
As you roam on silk, ripped tippy-toe alone through Silver lakeSplayed astride a snow-white mare, on a non-stop all-night tear
What a ghastly sight you smear in every face
In that fat, fur-trimmed affair that your lawyer lets you wear
You'll destroy your chance to ever get repeatedly engaged