Can you ever really speak for anyone’s butt yourself? Speak to me in the universal language of love, my paramour! Show your belly like you want me, too. I’ll visit pain upon my enemies and, when I tear the heart still beating from their mangled bodies, I will taste the sweetness of revenge.
So yeah, you die. This bitch is squeezing water from a stone. Blood from the side of the spearfished Savior. Too much marinara in the calzone. And still you gotta groove with time’s repeating metre cuz you missed the last few shows. Knowing all is cigs and theater, do do do dadadada the old song goes.
Did you hear about the dyslexic who sold his soul to Santa? …
Thank you! I’ll be here, all night? Every damn night?!
Then your mission is to find your David somewhere in all the random granite. Hack it out for all to see. The classic Grecian epitome of bodily perfection with modest stone peepee. Leave then, your holes and walls and talking things that have emerged from you and someone else’s spring. Once intimate tailings growing strangely apart, we clip the tip and call it art.
Yeah then, write it down. Write it all down! Flip the switch and make the sound. Feel the air rushing to your head, electricity translated you’re not yet dead. Who thinks these hieroglyphs can make them live forever? They can! Hanging, waiting, toes tapping on the sweet spot at the corner of Eternity and Grand.