In your pomp and all your glory, you're a poorer man than me.

I've tried my best to love you all, all you hypocrites and whores with your eyes on each other and locks on your doors.

I'll make love to you in all good places, under black mountains and open spaces.

My words are a whisper, your deafness a shout.

She's a warm fart at Christmas.

Too many heroes stepping on too many toes, too many yes-men nodding when they really mean no.

I don't know about carry out, but you can carry me off to bed.