Debasing Days

My war paint runs like dogs in heat
and stains a thousand bathroom floors
while yobs downstairs down bright-blue drinks
and make mock their place on earth.
All Ive ever owned is locked upstairs
but your messy make-up streaks
tell us all it's time to leave
which seems to me to be the
way my nights all end these days.

'Cause we don't like eardrums bursting at the seams,
libations for the sake of drunkenness
- because I hold my self in high esteem
But hide behind a mask so cool it's frozen solid.
Because I prefer a quiet pint with paper
Or just because we were born too late
to these debasing days