Wake up. Put on my riot gear. But in the study of my house. I've got a smoking jacket passed to me from Grand Daddy. It's made of bow and arrow meat. .
She's the kind of girl. Who'll smash herself down. In the night. She's the kind of girl. Who'll fracture her mind. Till it's light. She'll break her own.
I am. Down the road and up the hill. I wait for you still. Wires 'round my fingers. . Potentially lovely. Perpetually human. Suspended and open. Open.
Down in Paris. They lose their ballets and their lipped mouths in the night. And stumbling through the street. They say, Sir, do you got a light?. And if you do, then you're my friend.
No one laughs at God in a hospital. No one laughs at God in a war. No one's laughing at God. When they're starving or freezing. Or so very poor. No one laughs at God when the doctor calls.
Jessica, wake up.. Jessica, wake up.. . It's February again,. We must get older. So wake up.. I can't write a song for you,. I'm out of melodies. I can't write a song for you,.
How. How can I forget your love?. How can I never see you again?. There is a time and place. for one more sweet embrace. and there's a time - ooh -. when it all - ooh - went wrong.
The piano is not firewood yet. They try to remember but still they forget. That the heart beats in threes. Just like a waltz. And nothing can stop you from dancing.
Shake it up. . I never loved nobody fully. Always one foot on the ground. And by protecting my heart truly. . I got lost. . In the sounds. I hear in my mind.
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Down in Bowery. They lose their ball-eyes and their lipped-mouths in the night. And stumbling through the street they say. "Sir, do you got a light?".
If I kiss you where it's sore. If I kiss you where it's sore. Will you feel better, better, better. Will you feel anything at all?. Will you feel better, better, better.
He stumbled into faith and thought. God this is all. There is. The pictures in his mind arose. And began. To breathe. And all the gods in all the worlds.
Come on, bartender. Won't you be more tender?. Give me two shots of whiskey. And a beer chaser. Love will be the death of me. Love is so fickle. It starts with a flood.
A man inside a room is shaking hands with other men. This is how it happens. Our carefully laid plans. . Shake it, shake it baby. Shake your ass out in that street.
All the rowboats in the paintings. They keep trying to row away. And the captains' worried faces. Stay contorted and staring at the waves. They'll keep hanging in their gold frames.