late night talking of mischeifnand she is coughing herself to deathnred wine stains on my pillow and her teethnand most of the neighborhood's in bednnthere's a whole lot of tirednit's so late i can't sleepni got splinters from these old baseboardsnand yellow hands and eyes from nicotinenni've done things i'll never tell youni'm a drifter in my own housenlet's hitch a ride to the kitchennhide in the closet until you flag somebody downnnwake me up when it's overnroll me over to see what i've donenwaste my time and push me out to seanthe drunken sailors we've become