Out in Hollywood, where the streets are paved with Goldwyn.
Three highballs, and I think I'm St. Francis of Assisi.
He lies below, correct in cypress wood, And entertains the most exclusive worms.
Her mind lives tidily, apart from cold and noise and pain. And bolts the door against her heart, out wailing in the rain.
Prince or commoner, tenor or bass, Painter or plumber or never-do-well, Do me a favor and shut your face - Poets alone should kiss and tell.
There was a reason for the cost of those perfectly plain black dresses.