Fugitive Air

I do wrong, strictly speaking, just for myself Because it makes me feel like a real man To hold hegemony over my business And I refuse to be abused by the milieu of wistful decay Besides, I'm used to all of my scruples deserting me Like they've done today The lady from the block hunched over on the stool With her withered old titty out, saying "I've been rolled so many times It's just feeding the pigeons" Now her grandson swings a little rabbit by the leg While his mother's playing two wooden flutes I went to repo some fugitive air To escape this street's vagary aesthetic Has anybody here seen my old friend Blob? Has anyone seen where he's gone? What he thinks I owe him is his former life but How can I unmake someone else's mistakes? I guess I was his antihero, the bitter word on his lips I hope I never feel a terror like when you discovered your autonomy had flipped I feel like I possess only the bad aspects of invincibility But none of the good ones Are we walking mausoleums of scented rotting flesh Mother always liked you best, liked your teeth upon her breast They remove the oils from the eyes of street cats Through some shitty witchcraft, and apply their brows and genitalia I had no idea how deeply I wounded you But I don't need no forgiveness and no level of contrition will ever do La la la La lalala la la La lalala la la La lalala la la la La la la La lalala la la La lalala la la La lalala la la Ooh-ah-ah Ooh-ah-ah Ooh-ah-ah Ooh-ah-ah Ooh-ah-ah Oooooooh