She's Lazy

He woke up at eleven in the night-mist morning
no coffee, no bread, no breakfast at his bed
She's hanging around in the living room
looking TV, surrounded by staples of women mags
with beautiful faces on glosspaint covers
so completely different from this garbage-canned flat
An overdosed shit-looking dog cave
especially designed for a bunch of wife-murdering husbands

She looks so fascinating with her smeared lipstick
in a soiled, coffeewet robe, sipping at a bottle of gin
In the empty wardrobe there isn't even fresh underwear
but his wish to kiss her nice gin-moisty chin
is bigger than his dislike of chain smokers
throwing all their cigarette stubs on the carpet floor
She's his wife and his favourite slut
his lazy dirty queen, he says he loves her core

She, she, she's lazy
she, she, she's lazy
but wonderfully crazy