I’ve glanced
at the script—
at the world looking down on me—
chest out, head high, proud—
and I’ve glanced at the fancy eyes
that were cued to avoid my parts,
of the women I’d rather kiss.
At the sights that cut to kill.
I’ve glanced at your throne,
and at my grass, dirty underfoot,
and the goblet of blood-red wine—
As I raise the empty cup of mine—
to the Ad-Lib.
I’ve glanced
at the script—
at the world looking down on me—
chest out, head high, proud—
and I’ve glanced at the fancy eyes
that were cued to avoid my parts,
of the women I’d rather kiss.
At the sights that cut to kill.
I’ve glanced at your throne,
and at my grass, dirty underfoot,
and the goblet of blood-red wine—
As I raise the empty cup of mine—
to the Ad-Lib.
I’ve glanced
at the script—
at the world looking down on me—
chest out, head high, proud—
and I’ve glanced at the fancy eyes
that were cued to avoid my parts,
of the women I’d rather kiss.
At the sights that cut to kill.
I’ve glanced at your throne,
and at my grass, dirty underfoot,
and the goblet of blood-red wine—
As I raise the empty cup of mine—
to the Ad-Lib.