The sound of the telephone
I listened until it stopped
opened my eyes
past 2 in the afternoon
it was raining

fucked up hair
fucked up letter
last night I wrote it
then tore it up

Last night’s wine and
whisky glasses
cigarette butts overflowing
the ashtray and around it
the cat walks

Why is the war
not over, I wonder
Why is the war
not going away, I wonder

The day of a hangover
I don’t need music
whatever I hear
becomes the thing I hate

stacks of mail
opened it and threw it out
drank some tea
the afternoon was over

Last night I made a phone call
to a new lover
thinking of you
night came and I was only
still waiting

And today the war
isn’t over, I guess
Maybe the war
might never go away

Why is the war
not over, I wonder
Why is the war
not going away, I wonder

Only rich people
go to the place
for dinner
I was invited to

Last night I wore clothes
I won’t wear again
I’ll get new clothes
put them on and go out:
“Becoming a rich person,
how does it feel?”
the rich people,
my friends—
I’ll ask them what they think.

Maybe the war
won’t ever end
Maybe the war
might never go away

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