Lyric William Blake Overdrive

I will make myself, a mile from the racetrack, drag my losses home.
It kills me not come back.
And we float with parasites all our lives.
There s me with the geriatrics at the slot machines.
There s me, the embodiment of how slow life can be.
There s me. Their dead eyes are glowing. Mine are always shut.
I passed out on the road, just hours from the racetrack.
I saw Lamotta raise a toast.
He said "you got me with the right jab."
And we float with parasites all our lives with this advice: we learn until we re dead.
Be losers til your sanguine thoughts subside.
We learn until we re dead.
A falling dream s not just a morbid sign.
It s opportunity.
These days I find beauty as depressing as years beyond my time.
If you could make this old heart young again I d find another topic to drone on,
a more fashionable vice to lean on.
Some better words to speak on that escaped my younger form.
But there s me with the geriatrics at the slot machines.
There s me. The embodiment of how slow life can be.
There s me. Short of imposing, please be involved.
Can I stop imploding at every obstacle thrown on me?
Imply this is only a prettier glimpse of a life so ugly that s mine.