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 thirty-seven, by the way and not twenty-eight

And 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