The Easy Mark & The Old Maid

The Easy Mark & The Old Maid - Bad Books

Some men collapse at the racetrack

Their wrong and beat up their eyes black

Others wilt in casinos

Roll dice and piss away speedboats

Some dissolve into bar stools

Scratched off in boxes and playoff pools

I spent myself on a psychic

I lost my way and a friend said she would find it

Man we were wrong

Man we were wrong

I asked for the future

She only sang me a song

Some men they go make their own luck

Grow fat from feeding on lame ducks

The easy mark and the old maid

The invalid and the ingrate

Others wait for that high sign

Some holy hoax in the tree-line

Me I'm counting my canned food

Bunkered down waiting out our slingshot moods

But what if I'm wrong

What if I'm wrong

I'll open my doors up

People come sweep me along

Eyes are fixed and my palms are spread

Dissonance floats my shipwrecked head

God sleeps in the Gaza strip

And man alone's left alone to live with it

The coin-flip faith of the optimist

It's beginners luck in a sewing kit

What's to do when there is no fix

On the unflinching ambivalence

But you say that's wrong

Hopeless and wrong

We re-thread your needle

You say God play along