Some Story.

From September to November.

We’ll sleep til whenever

Til the weather gets better

We’ll wear whatever

together where ever

Severed jeans or leather

Never, but it don’t matter

Fat, fatter, industrial like Trent Reznor

Bonita autumn blonde

You got me going on

Pretty pills, Pretty chills

Tripping off a trip from Tron.

He left his morale,

In his other pants.

And lost his soul along the way.

And everything was grey.

And everything was grey.

That’s what the nurses say.

Well, he had the beak of a bird,

palms of a chimp,

posture of a flamingo,

With a whimply limp.

And he ate up ideas and spilt out words.

Conjuring up wild stories of coming in third.

That’s when Mother Goose cried,

“Where is my only son?”

Noone knew what she was talking about,

So they coughed up a lung.

He said. “I’ve got purpose.

I’ve got blues and soul.

All of my buddies, All of which can be sold.”

Fred was dead at the wedding

Saying, “Ain’t it said? It’s raining!”

To which the dogs replied,

“I can tape it at three, just gimme one

I can tape over with.” And the clown,

The clown knew this song,

that went a little something,

like this, And you’ll like that.

Copy this, and copy that.

wrote this, then you wrote that.

Wrote that, Copy that, Life this,

You came back, Like that,

You came back, Forth, right, left, up,

Hey! I’m trying to sleep!

Squeeker fucker,

shut the fuck up.

?!

[A.R]