Story Behind the Song
In a busy Southern California City, reality swirling about, fantasy was called in to soothe harsh truths.
Lyrics
I picked up. At the hamburger stand, the car parked. Give me a scratch, I said. You, you, you like to have fun. Yes, driving around and around and around. Can I touch you there?
That is not cake frosting on your lips. The frosting is white, your lips are pink. It?s not lipstick, I know. I?ve been using it for twenty years. It?s our secret. But I hate rumors. There?s nowhere to go but down.
That?s how things get started.
Adjectives chrome out. Verbs vinyl loudly. A noun paper ceramic red. That?s how stuff happens. Action brown wood and legs rug lavender. Excrement occurs.
Still, they have no cultural ties to us, not one. No, it?s only make a buck. Pencil book candy. That sounds right.
But I?ve never had any problem like that. Yet, a paper clip nose hit chocolate coffee lace. Ah, but you must admit television. An absolute battle rages on. And no one owns the radio station. Nobody.
Let?s go up, two methods of payment, forever and hair. Your hair is not eligible, you forever not long enough. Eternity is finite. Finite is a drug. Teacher, teacher it?s not fair. In Georgia, they?re bad. In Mississippi, they?re worse: died before making it to the hospital. Hayden Lake pudding black hole. We ran out of gas and huge hot-air balloons hot dogs galore walking up and down one-hundred-fifty dollars. One-hundred-fifty dollars! Black and Mexican dragging all night through the middle of town. Takes stealing one horse in Texas to lose your life, but killing two Mexicans before you even get a warning.
Virginia said not to do this. Stay cool, Geraldine, listen to Gertrude, listen. Ernest did.
It is exhausting.
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