Old Sunny Blue, making its way south along my hemorrhaging varicose veins, to god in my shoe, getting him stoned. He's wondering if I would escort him home.
Well, I should call Madeleine, cause Marge just won't stop crying herself blind. She's bordering on being a bit unkind. And sister or not, she won't come through. Not with my hands turning a delicate blue
Well, I should call Madeleine. She would like to see this. She always loved a bitter end.
I feel like heaven in a handbag; like mixing mescaline with jet-lag. I look like hell dressed in her best drag. I feel like heaven.
Hospices are bleak this time of year and on a weekend. See that man who's begun to bleed again? He's had a bright idea about life: it's not a race so why not save some face? And get out all your laughs out while you can?
What a respectable plan for someone with God in his shoe, and death in his arm.