Fast fella, cough it up, five cents more please.
Faster, this crap’ll kill you, like anything else
as you cruise toward the bridge,
towards national death come due this minute we been evicted
come December 1st the ocean’s going down on the sun.

Hey wait a minute, that’s backwards, this old lady
bumming me for a quarter, retching phlegm. One quarter?
Is that your cut? Her lost sailor-man cut corners
to give himself his best, free to sail at sea,
free to dock to the arms of childrens, and a wife for life.