Take the 1800’s before the inception of modern day ideals,
Fake grip of appeals straight to the street run, no
Bar room virgin, double vision — cocaine, to a whore house of pain
New Orleans is a dying whore, naked she sleeps on my floor
The spreading highway, the underwater staircase
Leading up to a black room, to leave there you’re a fool
Mob world politics, so broke it can’t fix, trapped
In a time zone, there’s no place like home
New Orleans is a dying whore, naked she sleeps on my floor