Tom Waits
Mango! Mango! It was all put in top, curled like a piano ... She played Greek plays cons drunk, she played with her rump with his hand mime ... And what's the point? I knew that squeak. And besides it was always a gamble, his mood ... She started to belling and brave, as Plato would have seen cholera face it: You still have ridges to eat!
- I freelance, I know, I sang, I know! I have the skull By dint ... stiff stuffed!
Should not retract all: Mango, she adores me alive. Mango is not allowed how she stares at me in his desire. They looked like butterflies! It was the little dream! And our taste buds, these are sounds: Mango tastes Mahler. Sure it tastes serious. She drops of depression in the palm of his heart. It fits her and it fits her: it's worse when it's wet. That pink frieze in those days. It shaves close to being the big bomb in the body.
And Mango, she whispers, hush, hush, she broke his heart with children's stories ... I j'horreur that. I think not a dirty word. And that traitor like the devil, those cases. Traitor! Mango is pure. It's pure that girl as if she had dipped her secrets in rum ... I would drink real
saliva of an eye with my grief. But I have a nasty fear of the sonata she will play with his fingers on the morning of his suicide death ... because it is sworn in as the water rose, it will sweep over us ... When
she coos like that, sitting in the process of giving pleasure, I want to take it, her in age, and rock with my willows. But the rain fell on the storm.
j'horreur Because at the end of it, life ... Radiant lurking mockery! We spend all day, basically, to write poems with our nails into the oak furniture is huge ... how original! There are gusts and others throughout the gallantry of furniture ... We came to think that every pore of his skin has own tragedy.
But in the skull, I was fascinated huge task ... I saw myself in it like a hot knife through butter soft ... Even when I was defending the nap ... Always! Daylight, it was of no help. It would take to wipe the semen storms of our sorrows ...
Mango she wears dresses with prints of flowers, very 1980 ... It smokes cigars. We sing poems implexes stone on the couch, running underneath the dresses ... dresses! This is below the table that sets forth the sweetest melodies of the plot! The idiot! Skin! (From Plautus!)
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