I turn my swag off.

What's worse, Willis?:
the walking pneumonia
or dishpan hands?

I'll tell you right now
that he spits when he talks.
Do you still want to meet the Stranger?
You'll barely be half-pleased
with the Revelation.

There's Fool's Gold in the gravel lot--
enough to convince them
to change all their locks
foolishly, mind you.
The fools stagger on.

We've pulled a few teeth from these knuckles before
and before the lights dim we'll yank a few more.

Never trust a girl who smokes Newports
and run if you see Reds in her purse
'cause she could probably pin your wrist
and would break more than your bloodpump.

And am I too amorous, darling?
Well just circle C
and keep your naked fingers crossed.
Will I tell you there's no Santa Claus?
No, honey; I'm a professional.

But what if the birds ganged up on the cats?

It's too obscure, it's too obscure...

It's so surreal like this month's sun-showers
and scarcely as filling as astronaut food.

"We hate it when you write like this..."

But I never called it writing, Consumers
and I've yet to receive a payroll check
though supper's always served.

Yeahyeahyeah.
Kick me through the phone.