Drink to ghosts of past years' catastrophic love affairs, to robes of red and silver tales worn thin from too much care.

Listen friend she wrote, and I heard her pen cry before it broke. Who are we and why, oh why can't we behave? We are good people, aren't we? Do you know? Jon-jon had surprising eyes and narrow black suede shows, a war to fight in Paris and a sister with the blues. Pusique ton papa est en voyage you've heard your mother making love is not what we are Jon-jon, you and I are rats at cupids table but we're fine. In the darkest corner of a downstairs gathering ladybirds and pirate cowboys, made up, conversing. Islands sinking from musicians, bedtime stories, York Magicians, but you don't have to worry darling, frozen hearts leave seetrough scarring, and no one else will know unless you tell.