In the salon de refuse the people point and laugh
and spew their glib reactions to all the mad abstractions.
The world is theirs, we just live downstairs,
in the basement with the draft.
The roommate from St. Catharines swirls out with the bath.
Baby, it's always going to be that way.
When are you going to embrace your painful beauty
that doesn't want to show its face
out in the daylight, haunting you at night?
See the tongue-tied, doe-eyed darlings of the dark side
swinging deals behind the scenes with two fists.
Truth is, what's come home to roost?
Just humanoid bank machines?
Still, there must be a place for us little burnt out sunbeams.
Baby, it's always going to be that way.
When are you going to embrace the painful beauty
that doesn't want to show...
What have they done to you?
Weren't they the same ones who
once booed Bob Dylan too?
It's a shame so much affection is wasted on perfection.
Blown on a swan that anyone can see the glory of.
But objects in the mirror are grosser than they appear.
Admire them, desire them,
but only a mother could love such an ugly
baby, it's always going to be that way.
When are you going to embrace your painful beauty
that doesn't want to show.
What have they done to you?
Aren't they the same ones who
once booed Bob Dylan too?
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