Playboys, Punks, and Pretty Things

"A penny for your thoughts," he says
As he swiftly slips from bed to bed
And the thoughtful ones are charmed by him
And the sexy ones turned on by him

And he's knighted by Casanova's kin
And his ladies would never turn on him
'Cause he's the Cary Grant of the party kings
And the playboy of your wildest dreams

Wouldn't you like to be a sweetheart?
Haven't you dreamed of being an upstart?
Owning the heart of every beauty queen
The envy of every lady's man-machine

Making regular stops at meat market spots
Lifting skirts and molesting tarts
Buying bottles and blow and whiskey shots
For any femme fatale who's got an urge to fuck

Sometimes he's not alone, he's got a family and home
Does he rent or does he own? Is he the villain in your tome?
Has he forgotten his way? Has he a mind to leave the fray?
Are you so naïve and vague? Does it matter anyway?

Early afternoon, it's dead, they've all gone down and off to bed
And in his hands, a fifth of gin, a fine young thing, some methedrine
Disgusted, drunk and all washed up and still nursing a stinking cup
He shades his eyes from a cloudless sky and punks it up, it's party time again

Combat boots are all laced up, Prada shoes with argyle socks
Seductive stares and massed up hair, ripped and torn and now laid bare
I'll take you to my little room, I'll play you "Fly Me to the Moon"
Relax, I'm clean and blind and free, you won't gain anything from me

Come take comfort from the storm, befriend the ones you scorned
I'll be your savior and your saint, I'll be what all the others ain't
It's not as bad as it all seems, what if this were all a dream?
Do you have to be so plain? Does it matter anyway?