Tomorrow is Sunday. Now there's only one day left to go. Till you walk by. Below my window. The weekends drive me mad. Holidays are oh too sad. 'Cause you don't go.
I picked the morning paper off the floor. It was full of other people's little wars. Wouldn't they like their peace. Don't we get bored. And we call for the three great stimulants.
This is the reoccurring dream. Born in the dreary gap between. What we have now. And what we wish we could have. More fulfilling--and less frustrating!.
PENANCE CRANE:. The pirate anchored on a Wednesday. And why he came to port I wonder. To see a lady so my friends say. She dances for the sailors. In a smoky cabaret bar underground.
I want to paint a picture. Botticelli style. Instead of Venus on a clam. I'd paint this flower child. "You are the air my flowers breathe". He calls, and the ladies turn around.
Front rooms. Back rooms. Slide into tables. Crowd into bathrooms. Joke around. Cheap talk. Deep talk. Talk, talk, talk around the clock. Crawl home. Lie down.