It takes two to five minutes to make my presence known.
It takes a floor of five cynics to make us all feel old
When a lighted touch illuminated the walkways,
And I was high on your scent drawn so far from home.
A cigarette dragged until the orange embers glowed
Boots pressed against the angels that were left in dirty snow.
We were two birds in the same cage.
I was watered-down whiskey and watered-down wit,
Giving my praises, but not giving a shit.
Because it takes twenty five minutes to make the walk home
But only five minutes to hide what I had shown.
You can halve our final hours and wish you hadn't grown,
Or you can have these final hours, because they are your own.