She's a warm fart at Christmas.
Hold your head up to the gun of a million cathode ray tubes aired at your tiny skull.
Her legs went on forever, like staring at infinity through a wisp of cotton panty along a skin of satin sea.
Give us Direction; the best of goodwill; Put us in touch with fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum the evening's song. Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.
Everyone's saved, we're in the grave. See you there for afternoon tea.
Jump up, look around, find yourself some fun. No sense in sitting there hating everyone.