So, its my fault then?
That I drive this sports car.
That all I wear are suits.
That when I smoke, its from a honeycomb pipe.
That when speaking of a woman, its the one from the night before?
That I own a small place here, a big place there- and a larger place over there?
That I left high school at a young age, got out into the world?
That I had an idea, I grabbed it, took it, and now you see me where I am?
I don't quite understand why I get looked at in disgust- as my father never gave me this sports car.
My father never gave me these suits-
My mother never fed my smoking habit.
None of my friends gave me drugs to give those women.
No one has mysteriously died and left their penthouses in my name.
I was lucky. Just very lucky.

What about the man that drives the sedan?
What about the man who has one good suit that he prides himself on, and in?
What about the man who buys the cigarettes to feed his addiction,
and when he speaks of The Woman, it beats a hundred of the women i've been with?
What about the man who just paid off his mortgage to his 2 story home in the suburbs, saving up for that sports car.
Those suits
That pipe and tobacco
To get his wife and baby girl back.
He's made something of himself- carved himself a niche, he made a mistake- mistakes. He's fixed himself.
All he wants is The Woman back. I wish I know where My Woman was. I can't remember the one the night before,
or the one before that- or that.


I've forgotten to put gas in the car,
I forgot which suit I wear, today.
I seem to have misplaced my pipe,
I haven't been invited to a party, tonight.
I've misplaced my elevator keycard to my home.