He hears the silence howling catches angels as they fall, and the all time winner has got him by the fun.
In your pomp and all your glory, you're a poorer man than me.
Snot is running down his nose, greasy fingers, smearing shabby clothes.
I don't know about carry out, but you can carry me off to bed.
She's a nice girl, but her bad girl's better.
My words are a whisper, your deafness a shout.