Before I die alone, as we all must, baby, because everyone dies alone. I'm drunk, bitch, baby. Before I die alone, let me tell you about how it is. How it is in San Francisco. Today I got drunk in San Francisco, I rode the BART and looked into the eyes of a few lost souls and saw a thousand desperate evenings, a thousand nights on the streets, lost, lookin' for that one thing. You know what it is if you've been there. And if you haven't, well, I hope you never have to. The BART stopped. I lit a cigar and talked to an old friend named Daisy. I first met her in 1865 while she was turnin' tricks for million dollar brokers on Telegraph Avenue. I happened to come back from the track with a pocketful of paper and a headful of bourbon. I was on top of th world and she was on top of me. She gave me hepatitis. Today she don't look so good. Got that "hey mister how 'bout a blowjob easy cause I got no teeth ravaged by time need a dollar" look on her face. I take her down to the docks and we drink 3 gallons of gasoline and bullshit about god, poems, and physics. She makes a pass at me, still beautiful, still got flanks like a racehorse and a rack like a bulldozer, still knows all my weaknesses, still smells like the day you were born. She makes a pass at me and we make love, I mean fuck, in the ocean, and she dies.

The doctor called me a dead man. That's the only reason I'm still alive. A different bitch dies in my arms everyday. I've fought in all the nuclear wars and my team always loses but I always bet against 'em anyway. Now I'm in a bar, only place the world will take me, and I'm thinking, which bitch, which bitch be next bitch? I got a bottleful o' Hennessey / get lit when I see / all tha little tit-a-bees / that be callin' me / but Im not dead you see / cuz I got the medicee / that keeps keepin me / writin' all this poetry / yeah / yea /ye / y / /

San Francisco, why cant I get you drunk and make rape to you?