Rings 'round his eyes. Tracks down his arm. His fans are confused and his friends are alarmed. His wife doesn't talk. Hates when he's gone. Counts every skirt in his new entourage.
It was Don Delillo, whiskey neat. And a blinking midnight clock. Speakers on a TV stand. Just a turntable to watch. Only smoke came out our mouths. On all those hooded sweatshirt walks.