Tortured Lane (Hobo Song) Video (MV)

Shooting stars upon a plastic moon
Shiver as one cold breath foggy and blue
Blue as we maniacs crowding round the street lamps
A little kid wouldn't be caught dead round our tracks

And the blood in me boils when yesterday's press
Wraps around my stained pants along this death trap
Consorting loss and decay, John Does once bright-eyed and sane

And I guess we've got nothing better to do, how 'bout you?
And I guess we've got nothing better to do, how 'bout you?

In the splashes of polyester puddles and nylon woes
I eye those curvy harlots from head to toe

I take a turn down a putrid alleyway
See if I may not have to stay alone tonight
I'm a midnight cowboy exposing the rapture of all their tall lies
And piss upon another orange peel of sighs

And I guess I've got nothing better to do, how 'bout you?
And I guess I've got nothing better to do, how 'bout you?

Soon she'll mount me, bring me off these slimy defecations and broken TV sets
Into her, I slip into a wormhole diseased with sorrowful egress
But I found it, yes I found it, the summer breeze beside a sea sunset
Away from the ground treacheries, the dark recesses of another tortured lane

Instead, I roll away from this misconception into a makeshift bed
Wipe the mucus off my face from my spate
And the shooting stars have dissipated
And I cannot anticipate the sun nor the rain
As I wallow in the mire of my worthless empire