by Keith Richards
Goodnight spoon and goodnight stash.
The sun is up it’s time to crash.
Goodnight booze and pills and crystals,
Moroccan scarves German pistols
The groupies snorted all the blow;
The roadies passed out hours ago;
Mick’s stretched out in Room Ten-Oh-Nine
While all the stray cats wait in line.
So goodnight Memory Motel.
Goodnight bottle of Rebel Yell;
Brazilian pimp and Swedish whore;
French cops pounding at the door.
The dealers with the gypsy curse;
That jaded, faded junkie nurse;
Midnight ramblers and Angels on Harleys;
That tripped-out chick who swears she’s Charlie’s.
Goodnight Brian, Bill, and Rob.
Goodnight Elvis. Goodnight Jann.
It’s time to set the cuckoo clock.
Ah, fuck sleep. Let’s stay up and rock.