"Bon Voyage" 

And promptly he hung up the phone 

There was a doorbell ringing 

So he snuck out onto the terrace 

He said "If these were my last words, 

would they even make print? 

If all I had to say was simply over said 

by those old heretics." 

These words are counterfeit 

Xeroxed off of memory 

And no one's listening 

Hey 



Twilight dawns 

All the champagne is gone 

All that's left is left behind 

Doorbells, still life

Hey 



"Since you're leaving 

was it a hollowed out heart? 

It seems like you've been searching for some wordly position. 

Somewhere you can curl up in a little ball." 



It seems the world collapses 

In the mother's womb 

The place of birth 

Where we're all condemned 

It's the warm, sad, jaded end 

Starving for salvation on a terrace 

Drunk, tired, and alone 

Farewell dead skin 



These words are second-hand 

They're dry 

They're cracked-plastic lies 

They're cheap old whores 

That wasted their lives 

In search of the warmest womb