The ghost that shoots me up holds me like a fairytale. He paid off my patron saint and my heart tipped the scale. This is not a confession about dope or living unwell. It's playing a nightmare on repeat while praying to paradise in a gypsy hotel. These hallways are always changing. Some men hanging while women singing in the bar below. I go there after I am good and stoned. I pick a brunette like a feather from a crow. Spill a drink on her and tell her low-down lies until she looks lobotomized. I take her out as my Juliet until she burns away, just like all the others who came in with faces made of clay. I am a lonesome sinner carrying the sunken ships buried in my heart. I have no bravery left, and I am too old for love and theft. So the ghost I will answer to, letting it burn under my skin because Johnny Thunders sang Born to Lose. So dear ghost, my Jack of Hearts, will you vanish with me or will you haunt on? You can remain without the guilty lectures introduced by my suffering. Just don't ever think you know who you are seeing. Am I being or meaning? You be like I and abandon all hope in this room. Oh, look they're painting a happy face on the moon.