He smokes his last cigarette from the packnShines the whiskey right off his shoesnHe knows there's never any turning backnStill he grabs his fresh pressed suitnnGets dressed while the sweat rolls down his chestnThis day could be his lastnIt seems like it's coming too damn quicknOh yeah, it's coming fastnnHits the road like a bat straight out of hellnHe rolls the window downnI've never seen him cry so wellnI've never seen him frownnnHe turns his Frank cigarette on highnSings along to that New York lullabynnIt's times like these that we will fightnIt's over and under our skinnNow darling, tell menThat we're alrightnnShe waits for him in the hearsenWhile trying to find some lipsticknThat will compliment her skirtnAnd match her ugly purse-onalitynIs out of linenI think she'd just be finenNot knowing the meaning of a dimenOh, no, he's running out of timennHits the brakes when arriving to the scenenHis bowtie's drenched in sweatnThese days are few and far betweennnHe's throwing up regretnShe struts up to his car and smilesnKisses one last timenSays, Pray for me when I go on trial