Little John is dead and he doesn't care.
Mr. Einstein has a sponge bath with turtles all around.
I heard you like white wine.
Bela Lugosi's son is eating crackers and watches the sun set in a David Lynch soap opera.
Nothing more but laziness and post-modernism.
Paintings with blue and female nudes in the living-room.
I like Chopin mixed with The Doors on a Sunday evening.
Let's travel together to Las Vegas and get married.
Wife and son, mother and uncle, girl and boy.
We are all alike in the Hungarian Dance, on a melody's high heels.
Bela Lugosi's son is drinking white butterflies and writing last autumn's poems.
On your neck, in your mind, while we become REM midnight lovers.