Fifty-Nine

Ensconced within your ruddy '59 Cadillac
A chariot to the stars of old
The Cleopatras of Hollywood
On their way to The Bowl

But this four-wheeled carriage's best days are behind it
With fenders flapping
Edges ragged with brown rust
Not the ideal complement to the faded black paint

Peddling a tattered three inch thick screenplay
Going from door to fancy door
Agents, producers, actors all backing away saying "No Thanks"
Leaving you to drive away topless in a rainy downpour

Oh the poor old Biarritz tries its best
But a power convertible top
That consists of scraps of white fabric clinging to black metal frame
Can only do so much to keep the weather out

And so the water soaks into the premium leather
The kind that they just don't make anymore
But bringing back that faded black paint just a bit
Now looking a bit less like a dirty garage floor

Same as it soaks into you
Your flannel shirt and white tee
Long black beard and dungarees
Giving you that shiny wet look
Sort of clammy ghetto glamorous
Like an old sheep dog's fur that needs to be shook

Quite the pair the two of you are
Both born in nineteen fifty-nine
Still trying to live the good life
And just a little bit past your prime