"Bon Voyage"    And promptly he hung up the phone    There was a doorbell ringing    So he snuck out onto the terrace    He said "If these were my last words,    would they even make print?    If all I had to say was simply over said    by those old heretics."    These words are counterfeit    Xeroxed off of memory    And no one's listening    Hey       Twilight dawns    All the champagne is gone    All that's left is left behind    Doorbells, still lives       "Since you're leaving    was it a hollowed out heart?    It seems like you've been yearning for some wordly position.    Somewhere you can curl up in a little ball."       It seems the world collapses    In the mother's womb    The place of birth    Where we're all condemned    It's the warm, sad, jaded end    Starving for salvation of a terrace    Drunk, tired, and alone    Farewell dead skin       These words are second-hand    They're dry    They're cracked-plastic lies    They're cheap old whores    Who wasted their lives    In search of the warmest womb