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

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