Jacqui exits the strip club, zips up her coat,
Picks up her brown leather bag full of clothes,
Hundreds of pairs of underwear stare,
Up at Jacqui like rags full of holes,
Maybe tomorrow, she thinks to herself,
She’ll take the cash she got stashed and just go;
Russia, Alaska or anywhere cold,
Any country she has to wear clothes.
She’s sick of the stench of the warm leatherette,
Sick of the smell of the stale cigarettes,
Sick of the pricks that start dripping with sweat,
From hiding, disguising whatever’s erect;
They sit on their hands producing saliva,
Shifting their pants as their trousers get tighter,
Desperately thinking of some way to find a
Woman like Jacqui who will let them inside her.
Well, maybe tomorrow, she thinks to herself,
She’ll take the cash she got stashed and just go,
Russia, Alaska, or anywhere cold,
Any country she has to wear clothes.
Or tomorrow’s tomorrow, she thinks to herself,
As she’s done for a month of last nights,
Russia, Alaska, she don’t really know,
I’ll ask her next time and she might.
