The fly-blown, garish, neon advertising sign glares, flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning, in his hand; his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
And, hasn't called now, for close on a year... not since that dreadful night
he came home to an empty, cold apartment... and, no sign of her.
The letter... ominous, on the table; that he knew, one day, she'd write,
for, though they loved each other, he could always feel a shadow... there.

She wrote... there was no-one to blame; just that, their love, they had outgrown,
and she had met somebody else.
She could not stay... she had to leave.
To stay, would be to live a lie... he would be better on his own;
so he could find somebody else... a love, in which, he could believe.
The letter burned into his brain. He read it once, he read it twice;
had everything been just a game?... the whisky bottle smiled at him.
He climbed inside, to drown himself; his heart was cold... as cold as ice,
and, in the whiskey's warm, bright kiss... his eyes, with helpless tears, did swim.

And, there he stayed, until... the whisky bottle held no Golden smile,
and then, he stumbled to his bed... but, there would be no comfort, there.
No familiar warmth, so soft... his sleepy senses, to beguile;
just the linger on the pillow, of her sweetly perfumed hair.
And, so he lay there, in the darkness, until he could stand no more;
he wandered out into the night, to greet, again... his Golden friend.
Through the cold, and rainy streets; from sleazy bar, to sleazy bar...
knowing this would be his future; knowing this would never end.

The Hooker, lounging further down the bar, watched, with voracious eyes...
slipping skirt a little higher; stocking tops eased into view.
Watching coldly, from beneath her green eye-shadowed, brash disguise;
but, he scarcely glanced at her... a total waste of time... she knew.
And, time was money... so, she rose; and tottered out on spiky heels;
his Golden friend would understand... his Golden friend won't make him cry.
He swirls the ice cubes in his glass... his Golden friend knows how he feels;
he misses her... her warmth, her smile; It's not the Sex... Sex he can buy.

The fly-blown, garish neon, advertising sign glares, flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning in his hand... his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
He waves a banknote at the Barman; same again... the bottle, too.
He gazes down into his glass, and contemplates his Golden friend;
his Golden friend will never leave... his Golden friend is always true.
Remember, then...
a broken heart will never quite completely mend.