You dress the back of my throat with the taste of vodka

Stale in this low blood sugar morning

I always wanted to be a starving artist

It wracks the body with aches and pains

Accenting your muscle tone with my moans

Drop a quarter at the laundromat to tell me what I know

I'm underweight but not technically unhealthy

Drop ten pounds after your hundred forty

The food sat out all night but my stomach has no ulcers

Back to the vodka when there's not much left

Acid in my stomach curdles and sways

Time to count the change on the floor

Or what's left of it