Coulda

He arrived in a shotty bathroom There were no stalls In an apartment Away from it all Having a good story Something to tell Is a virtue For some, past bruises swell He was a writer A great thinker Lit cigarettes with a lighter Used his turning blinker Now he just lays there No one will raise a finger His mother's dead his father's nowhere He is polite A devilish look and his heir was always there She OD'd on dope Money she got from the last date Shit, she couldn't care His story blown for the feeling of being a 10 minute ice cream cone