I can’t sing and they can’t play. At first I’m going to wear a dinner jacket in front of a buncha hippies and an electrician’s helper. My girlfriends are stewardesses on the handbasket to hell. Then I’ll try an unexplained eyepatch and some sort of uniform like I’m a Field Marshal in the Weirdmacht. We’re annexing Bolivia, though.

I’m drunk on Rimbaud while I read the gin bottle. I invented girls wearing their underwear on the outside of their clothes. I think they’re girls. I’d have to go to church every day for a century to work my way back to being as wholesome as a vampire. I perform live with dead eyes. I’m from the bad neighborhood on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. We’re the default wedding band for marriages of convenience.

Wanna dance?