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his wife is tired,
she wants to sleep,
but all that Morgan Davis wants is
Cream of Wheat
he waits and when
she turns out the lights
he tiptoes through the darkness
and steps into the night
this boring life that he leads
of buying and selling stocks
makes him feel
he's growing old and tired
there's no joy, no strife
just the passing time
in this boring life
he wants the lights, the jazz,
a piece of ass,
a toothless bitch to blow him for
a vial of crack
he cooks his junk
in some Gatorade
and scores a bag of chronic
on the East MLK
this secret life that he leads
of buying and selling drugs
keeps him up at night
he's selling hash,
screwing trailer trash —
hey, he's making cash
it's a whoring life!
My friends are all salesmen,
my wife is a slut!
There must be something bigger
I can stick in my butt!
The IRS is auditing,
my life's in a rut!
and so he's
fired his heat
he's blown his blow
it's comin' up on sunrise
and it's time to go
he smells like barf
his hair's a mess
he wipes the coke and lipstick
off his fat, hairy chest
he stumbles home from a
lezzie show,
he will be at work in an
hour or so
he crawls in bed
with his sleeping wife
just a night to break up
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