PUNKY’S DILEMMA
Screaming, blue bloody murder into the phone, just one more time but I’m on fire tonight, I’m on a roll. We’ll see how many hearts I can break, how my friends I can leave in tears, how many women I can leave tangled in sheets and blood. I’m the nice type. I live for this.
Grin, skin, and lead ‘em in; don’t have to be the smoothest out there, just the most obvious. Make ‘em notice you, make all the whore and sluts on Easy Street crane their necks ‘till you can break ‘em. Make all the nice girls think thoughts Momma wouldn’t dream of. It ain’t beauty. It ain’t finesse. They can smell you before they can see you, and animal magnetism’s only for the loudest in the crowd. Forget your lean squeaky clean pop-star routine, drop Mr. Nice off a bridge, because there ain’t no time for film star good looks. ‘Lights, camera, action,’ hell. No strings, no lights, and let the action roll; I’ll always remember you because you were just like all the rest. But I won’t tell you that ‘till later, even if you already know. Love.
It ain’t an act, though, it ain’t a mask behind which the real man lurketh, oh no: there isn’t a place your guard goes down. Home, you da man; work, you da man; town, you da man, just gotta keep runnin’ a little more each time while you look like you’re strolling. Can’t risk giving a false impression, ‘cause you’re never showin’ anything but; can’t calm down, no middle ground, soon you’ll be sky high takin’ the high line and ready to die. Drink, don’t think don’t dream ‘cause you’ll never sleep alone.
The world isn’t big enough for two of us, simple maths. Share yourself with many and your life with none, that’s the trick, or so they tell me. Strike a chord, give me a beat and this is my job, nine ‘till five except on weekdays when I’m beating the living shit out of the next guy in the queue. Bruised and blue’s a good way to be, long as you don’t tell; high five, down low, to the side, pull a knife. I was an emo kid once, but I got tired of cutting me: half the fun’s the look on the faces.
I ain’t the kind of guy to testify to the worthiness of life: spin me a lie and a wild ride for a lorry-back hi-fi, never yet been one to deny. Don’t give the kids an inch, ‘cause everyone knows we wish you were never born. Too much to say, too much to fight for, too much like us; ain’t no surprise, just a little weird when the brick’s comin’ back through your window. Hand-in-glove, each one biting the other; shoe’s on the other foot now.
Jump start your mind with a white line every morning, joke with ‘em about how far you can go: everyone’s got the same fears. Hard man, hard times, still workin’ the old lines. No-one sees the real you, not that you’d want ‘em to, ‘cause by the time you’re done coverin’ up, what you’re showin’ off it all you got. And sure as blood’s red, sure as coke’s white, sure as you can see God laughing out the corner of your eye; sure as hell, nobody gives a damn.
