Is that a black widow spider
Or a skinny young blonde that he's waiting for
Down by the nail salon?
And is it blood on his shoulder, a little on his cheek?
Told her he'd be home inside a week
He said he just needs a little time to clear out his head
A few good nights sleepin' on a cheap motel bed
In a little town somewhere north of Venice, by the beach
Where everyone's a little out of reach
Yeah, it's just a portrait of the artist as a middle-aged man
Staring blankly at a canvas with his trembling hands
Back at home they're hanging tinsel and fighting back the tears
No one's singing Christmas songs around here
'Cause here's just some rag mags and menthols
In a crumpled shopping bag
And he's got the Avis blacked out Camaro keys in his other hand
And he looks down at the ocean at the end of the road
And he thinks, "I'd rather drown than charge up my phone"
Now it's raining in Latigo, and it's slippery on the road
She's dialing up another song he doesn't know
Some girls quite like country music but that's not so common now
Boys, you know what I'm talking about
Yeah, it's just a portrait of the driver as a middle-aged man
Riding shotgun is a woman that he could never understand
She's got her feet up on the dashboard as he fumbles for the gears
Neither one's been so dissatisfied in years
Have you ever seen the city from a rental car at night?
Through a foggy rear view mirror, it's a melancholy sight
And when you bit the hand that fed you
And hurt the ones you love the most
It's best you just keep driving up the coast
♪
Now she's paying with his credit card
While he gather's up his thoughts
She's got peroxide and a ponytail, and some cut-off denim shorts
Bare midriff and a bracelet that was just this morning bought
You see it all ends up as evidence in court
Yeah, it's just a portrait of a husband as a middle-aged man
He's standing there all stripped to bare, covered in fake tan
She's dancing in the shallows while he's clinging to his beer
And who knows, he could be dead inside a year
Yeah, it's just a portrait of an artist as a middle-aged man
Staring blankly at a canvas with his trembling hands
And he'd appreciate an audience just to watch him disappear
Any luck he'll be dead inside a year
While back at home they're hanging tinsel
And they're fighting back the tears
No one's singing Christmas songs around here