He arrived in a shotty bathroom
There were no stalls
In an apartment
Away from it all

Having a good story
Something to tell
Is a virtue
For some, past bruises swell

He was a writer 
A great thinker
Lit cigarettes with a lighter
Used his turning blinker

Now he just lays there
No one will raise a finger
His mother's dead his father's nowhere

He is polite
A devilish look and his heir was always there
She OD'd on dope
Money she got from the last date
Shit, she couldn't care
His story blown for the feeling of being a 10 minute ice
cream cone