I can barely feel the sheets with all these crumbs down in my bed
How can I get to sleep with all this buzzin' in my head
And who'd have ever thought I'd not complain about a mess
Servers me right I guess
This is what I get
For eatin' crackers with my gin
And drinkin' in my Sunday dress
The telephone is by the bottle, which is always by my bed
From time to time I give it a rattle to make sure that it's not dead
I will wait here for your call till I run out of cigarettes
I love to play the part of the damsel in distress
Flickin' ashes in my coffee
Drinkin' in my Sunday dress