Father's By The Door-Algebra Suicide
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Father's by the door. No more jukebox hands or swollen feet.
No more fun. The house is drained.
I put on my bravest shirt and get some blueing for these eyes.
I know this face is money, but the skinny boys won't buy.
Father's by the door. Father's by the door.
Forget that saxophone in the subway; that glove, slipped off, which smelled.
Stop those river of hips: they'll be greeted with a sneer, and fasten your brassiere
Before your breasts become too cold.
The day reclines and falls asleep, 'cause father's by the door.
Father's by the door. Father's by the door.
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