WHITLEY FLATS

The dirty yellow sun is coming in my room.
I’m drinking in my boxers in the afternoon.
I got myself a Murphy bed and a radio.
I’m trapped in my head with nowhere to go.
The junkies down the hall have got an angry cat.
The bastard chewed a hole in my favorite hat.
It’s hard to be king and try to live like that.
I’m just a butter bean in the bacon fat.
That’s my life.
That’s alright.
That’s my life down at the Whitley Flats.

I seen that little cutie in the laundry room.
She lives upstairs in a crescent moon.
I seen her in the hall in her electric dress.
I dream about her next to me—her hair is such a mess.
Her boyfriend is dealing crystal meth.
He used to be a roadie for Megadeth.
Well, he left town and she came to me.
I had a little trouble getting her to leave.
That’s my life.
That’s alright.
That’s my life down at the Whitley Flats.

The manager is pissed because the sink’s backed up.
I heard he likes to wear a woman’s double cup.
I got to tippy-toe by room 103.
That crazy Nazi bitch has got a crush on me.
There ain’t no parking on the street today, but I don’t care ‘cause they towed my ass away.
I think I’ll go down to the corner bar and buy myself a piece of time.
That’s my life.
That’s alright.
That’s my life down at the Whitley Flats.