Buck 65 - Double Header lyrics

The women here are just like in magazines Stern Too precious Pissy Ferocious Blank Just so Bodies like twelve year old boys Faces like casino poker dealers Plastic and distant They look right through you And are only interested in your money And they all smoke Gorgeous and boring Who are they talking to on their tiny phones? Psychics Drug dealers Crisis line operators or maybe the ghost of Serge Geinsburg What music do they listen to? Or do they listen to music at all? Whole world blown apart I hate to think we've grown apart Kicking a tin can Along Rue Bonepart Wind in my ears My hands are getting soft Shoes on Trying to chew what I've bitten off Atrophy setting in Now I'm feeling lonely Mostly Bells on Sunday Got me feeling holy ghostly Who's drinking the booze Who's singing the blues Hangman's messenger is bringing the news I've got 2 weeks left and then it's back to the mill Strength in my legs is practically nill I'm swinging an imaginary bat at some imaginary pitches And b**hing like a typical sagittarius I'm out of my element and up to my neck I'm psychic Extra sensitive and I don't like it Not one bit I'm feeling rather low on charm Feeling in my chest And tingle in my throwing arm Let's play too There may not be a tomorrow Magpies Wiener dogs Let's at least shag flies No run limit No in-field fly rule I haven't felt this alone since high school I write it in graffiti With a wonderful bubble letter Two most glorious words Double header Amusements and curiosities The greatest nostalgia is that for what has never truly been No more Ted Williams No more Jimmy Rogers No more Hemingway No more Henry Miller No more amusements and curiosities No one seems to know the date It rains here everyday Boredom is beginning to creep in In a heavy way I'm restless and withered Faces all turned to stone Dishwater grey Smells like a nursing home I dig in my pockets And find that the love's gone Out in the street With my uniform and gloves on Hands tied behind my back Still can't get my kicks Maybe I'll fix up When the weather picks up I wander the field And listen for the curtain call I'm certain to always be the last to know first of all And secondly I'm technically all out of commission I gather my things but I'd rather be fishing I'm landlocked and worn out Working with the new machine Diamonds in the dirt are too far away and few between So dress me up and take me out Still can't make me drink I'm at my limit Cold and getting older by the minute