You Can't Hold the Hand of a Rock and Roll Man

This week's cash for last week's grass
 Your crew collates while you sit in the van and wait
 Gassed and trashed and smashed young cads
 Roasting away on a sunny summer day
 Or okay, an August night anyway
 And you're living on air
 While on the 25th floor, up there
 They'd fan a million bucks before your face
 Marie's passed out in a chair with her once fussed-over hair
 All mussed into an 'I've-just-been-fucked' shape
 Just an hour before, she crashed, all cashed
 She said, "I'm done with looking back, and you look your age
 Which is 37 by the way, and not 28
 Fucking let them stare, because at this point, I don't care
 I have been your bride stripped bare since '98
 And our silver-screen affair, it weighs less to me than air
 It's a gas now, it's a laugh, just how far several mil can take it"
 This week's as fast as last week's flash of interstate
 When you starved and never ate
 This week's splashed a sick, gold cast across your face
 As you roam on silk ripped tippy-toe alone through silver lake
 Splayed astride a snow-white mare on a non-stop all-night tear
 What a ghastly sight you smear in every face
 In that fat, fur-trimmed affair that your lawyer lets you wear
 You'll destroy your chance to ever get repeatedly engaged