My life was mine as coins are brown and few,
As the weak and enchanted fail to thrive,
And the undertaker's fattened roses blew.

My housemates were junkies and transvestites;
Sweet Cilla could flash a daunting tool;
My life was mine as coins are brown and few.

The oblong clock had stopped at 3:15
(Whether a.m. or p.m., there was no knowing),
But the undertaker's fattened roses blew.

In his own diurnal dark, some Druid prayed for me
(This was the dim sense I had of it):
My life was mine as coins are brown and few.

There on the corner, funeral home and clock.
Beyond, the city's arsenals, coffers.
And the undertaker's fattened roses blew.

So, as Neil Young sang his hurricane of need
In the lit and brittle shop replete,
My life was mine as coins are brown and few
And the undertaker's fattened roses blew.