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 anyway)

And 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 shape

Just 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-eight

And 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 it."

This week's as 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 lake

Splayed 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