His unwashed hair clings to his eyes ad his lips; clumsy,
Like some kiss in the dark,
And he has a pair of paper wings instead of a heart.
Standing still as a statue
He waits for loose change,
And he never sings,
And he never gets laid.
Hes been waiting seven years
For that pre-Raphaelite girlfriend of his
Who never showed up.
And hell wait seven more.
Half his CDs are wrapped in plastic,
And he doesnt tell a soul, but he listens to Blur,
And slowly hes started to think more
about lingerie than girls.
Starving himself pretty,
I can trace the skull
Beneath his cheeks.
Looks like my lucky day,
I write on the headboard in lipstick.