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West of Rome, just east of the border In a static-y ramada inn Polishing his boots and pummeling his liver Steeped in the dark isolation Just what business does he have around here Credentials are wearing out with each little bit of cheer Yes it's a bad scene we're convening Brushing his teeth and milking his ulcer Preparing to waste another wily morning Stroking himself and them phoning up his sister He tells her their life would make one whale of a movie Yes a childhood full of dry goods and wet neglect The father they now sponge off they have no absorbing respect Yes he's a glad boy to have such a void Yes he's a martyr crawling accross cobble stones From his cozy cottages just west of Rome Yes it's a sad state for great suffering From Letras Mania