One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences

Blue Eyes Wash Off Sometimes.

Stop The Darkness And Its Amputations And Find The Real Mccoy In The Private Holiness Of My Hands.

All Considerations For These Human Remains! They Must Have An Escort! They Are Classified!

My Business Is Words. Words Are Like Labels, Or Coins, Or Better, Like Swarming Bees.

Man Is A Bird Full Of Mud, I Say Aloud. And Death Looks On With A Casual Eye And Scratches His Anus.