There are so many fucking holes in you,
That I think he might play through
But he’s happier with the poking stick…

Feeling like it did back in forty four,
Waiting on Sunny with the little boy I adore.
There can be no peace without true lies,
No slipping on the mind’s refractions,
No sorry, no forgiveness, no retractions.
Just a complete obliteration of the substance..

Now, I have to kill myself like New Jersey,
In sight of that Empire state of mind,
My star keeps falling from the wishing tree,
So you have to catch me like a whispered prayer,
And let me know, that you’re really there.