West of Rome - Vic Chesnutt

West of Rome, just east of the border

In a static-y ramada inn

Polishing his boots and pummeling his liver

Steeped in the dark isolation

Just what business does he have around here

Credentials are wearing out with each little bit of cheer

Yes it’s a bad scene we’re convening

Brushing his teeth and milking his ulcer

Preparing to waste another wily morning

Stroking himself and them phoning up his sister

He tells her their life would make one whale of a movie

Yes a childhood full of dry goods and wet neglect

The father they now sponge off they have no absorbing respect

Yes he’s a glad boy to have such a void

Yes he’s a martyr crawling accross cobble stones

From his cozy cottages just west of Rome

Yes it’s a sad state for great suffering