A furrow along the rail let us off, let us slow off
“There is a certain age when a woman must be beautiful to be loved, and then there comes a time when she must be loved to be beautiful.”
Let her show off, let her leave this cast
To be one of the rare cases where a man's most famous song is also his best
We mourn our victories first, the zebra, the two bellied mule rider, the homie who's name I get to touch in an old year book and up wafts the smell of a new tennis ball, just out of the container, just that suburban hand-me-down comfort of see-through neon just that sapphire, safe safe unjust fire we play around in the garage door hoping to start making baskets and selling them (for) sneakers under the new jungle moon so clean and white half in June, yellowgold in April, hopscotch in the shade, one foot falls as the fable of blank dances teaches us to count to still
I adore you
I'd rather not
I'll take my chances
You are my chances
Sing this Work with me, Song
A particularly beautiful person is a source of terror. As a rule, a terrible disappointment... no, not that one
The word 'rule' ignites disobedience, we jump back onto the streetcar as if for the first time
