Inner city something with a song
Darling things are going strange, going wrong
Picture of seven year-old smile
Withers like the man with pervert bench
And we aren’t seven anymore

If that is me then who am I?
Darling, what have I become?
If my skin and bones will rot
Is my mind all that’s left when I’m gone?
It’s strange, it’s wrong

Self help tendencies, growing tenderness
I am trapped against my will

I met a girl at the Old Orleans
We had spicy chicken wings
We talked about so many things
Like

We went to a bar when the meal was through
I had a drink, she had a few
I asked her what she’d like to do
She said

I bought plane tickets and we flew away
We did some things along the way
But what they were, I couldn’t say
They were

If my mind is all that’s left to leave,
In the future in the dark I’ll grieve
In this social scene surrender
To the bones too long, too frail and tender
Seven is a number not remembered