Wander through this place
Scribble notes in pen
On the hand without your drink
While you watch the kids who flirt
These wallflowers lie
So lie like me
This party is a drag
If you don't have enough to drink
Oh, you must be Hemingway
And this coffeehouse is Paris
She's a wicked line of ink
And you're a journalist for hire
Now she's a wild, ravaged bride
With her eye on your daring ways
For a shake at your damaged pride
You throw your hands around her waist
Well, who has got the time?
She's appalled you'd even ask her
It's a blathering, bourgeois rhyme
Just to satisfy the native in her
Well, a penny for a pearl from your mouth
If I can pass it between our lips
You're a songbird, the weight of collapse
Clips your wings when I cut to the kiss
Oh, you must be Hemingway
And this coffeehouse is Paris
She's a wicked line of ink
And you're a journalist for hire
Now she's a wild, ravaged bride
With her eye on your daring ways
For a shake at your damaged pride
You throw your hands around her waist
I'm afraid of everything
That isn't glued down
And she can't stand herself most days
We were quiet children
I cling to her among the sea
Of wicked strangers
And we drift from our tragic scenes
Our haunting fever
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