Life is apparently easily bored with me,
warnings sound, headaches pound,
some from foolish head banging against objects unimpressed.
Some simply because destiny dislikes the way I dress,
other times because I refuse to see.
One commander of my demons is alcohol,
some small chance with it again we may descend.
But that face is too scarred from the last time we tangled,
commander knows this time he must be more carefully angled
as I have since learned how much to better pretend.
When aching abates, these warnings are easily dismissed.
A dangerous race, a pretty face
will find me famously short of any serious protection,
as usual unsure of route or direction,
while believing it can easily be won, and she can easily be kissed.
Now spinning almost out of control, then careening
off of harder things clocked at unnecessary speed,
like a runner seen as sinned upon or sinner.
Left behind are the instruments we will likely need,
while the bandleader tries to reiterate the beginning.
Yes, this old lament has been put to music at last
as phonetically there is nowhere else to go
except to intone out of key if you must
chords written and played too softly and too fast
by the proprietor of the last chance Texaco.