Smelling Cigarettes

Very much vodka and too much tequila: those are the ways I learned to deal.
Across against the light and the sleet scalds my sight,
stunned I stayed put and a billboard truck runs over my foot.
So things are really hopping; and my unemployment's stopping;
and my kitty cat's copping; and I need to forget.
So I go to the window and smell a cigarette.

Now I'm in the clutches of my crutches:
I'm laid up, and I sip from my cup, and I look outside.
And I see Christopher Hyde-who just got divorced,
and there's a restraining order enforced-going in his ex-wife's garage.
I'm just drunk enough to open the window, yell out gruff:

“Don't you key that brand-new Camry.”
And he gave me the cursor, “Damn,”
returning to the spot he was, “Mind your own business you!”
And I wag my finger, “You're not doing what you're supposed to do.”

And then he's coming toward me,
and I took a swig of my tequila
'cause it made me feel a little nervous as he started across against the light:
but he didn't look to his right as he didn't stay put.
And a billboard truck came and ran over his foot.

And the cops responding called out to me, “Hey is this your cat?”
“Yeah, but sometimes it forgets. Ah, wait a minute.
I gonna come out there and smell a couple a cigarettes.”

Don't you hurry-worry with me...