"Willpower is over rated," she sighs
As her eyes crawl through a maze
Somewhere in the plaster of the ceiling
Behind the impotent fan blades.
I swear this thin shag carpet
Is swallowing me down.
My words have won young hearts.
They've made a harlot cry.
They've strung her inside
This hotel diseased with vacancy,
But they cannot slide the gold
From her alabaster finger.
I strike a wooden match
And breath out something more than smoke.
"Willpower," I chuckle,
"Honey, we wouldn't have a clue."