Tired of hustling, tired of trying;
Exhausted, fumbling, scared and crying;
Memories, bottles, needles and smokes
Tense him up. He's lost and shaky;
Empty, down, sick and achy.
Red-lipped, perfumed girls pass by,
Some also in pain; new and shy;
Others harder; worn and high.
Just Monday, they would linger in his room,
And he could put aside his gloom.
The job is gone now; the good hours flown.
Lord, he's scared, his stake is blown.
Nights become days in his burned-out brain.
His life and wine are running low.
He's numbed out of kicks or afterglow.
It's Sunday now, a long, long span
Since he's been warmed by the genuine hand
Of anyone who cared to see him down
That last, dark-brown chemical load,
Leading to the blessed blackout road.
Sister, with your unknown, plastic face;
Be an actress and use some of his space;
Just hold his hand, hold him tight;
Blot out the clouds and the rain.
And maybe he'll think he sees the sun again.