The room is full of ash: and it falls on the floor like rust
Like flaking paint from an old machine
A yellow hand going out to old man nicotine
The room smelled of dogs and sour milk
And that money's burning a hole into your pocket
And if you don't watch out there'll be a hole in your heart
So if this bottle's empty and that one's full …


Well outside the smell is different
Difficult smells of money and fucks you can't afford
Remember how father came back, night after night
And threw your mother in the corner
And made you pray to God until your knees wore thin?
Well that room smelled of mothers and gin
Black as a sweep from praying to the bottle
Shrunken and drunken
Make your way to the bed
And then kneel like a saint with the stench of your prayers
Soon you'll have pickle instead of spit