We’ve got the inside track,
you and me. We’re sitting on tacks,
you and me. Dream like life, hungover.
Sex, drugs, and honor roll:
one, two, three nights gone,
Monday we’re back on track.

We’ve got the inside track,
we can win this thing.
This dream’s like life.
This dream-like life.
This dream, like life,
moves quickly
and chronologically,
nefarious nights and regular days.

You put down that Kerouac,
pick up that Aristotle concoction.
Nothing as real as we’d like it to be
or as sweet as we tell each other it is.