Lyrics
The bestwoodgrainbutter. The be stwood gra in but ter. Opens up, butterfly green wire hard. (S)he walks the streets. Love neon, nuts and bolts fastened tightly to the gelatin. Please supermegaultra, but quietly. Oh, Friday, if only I could talk to you about this. Carlos, Octavio, Juan, and Agustin intimidate me. Elena does too. She's obsessed with the red sunset. I suppose we all are, living in 1968. I guess it happened all over the world. I saw it at Huntley's in Claremont.
Faster and faster, dizzy colognes everyone knows. Afraid and upset, I push buttons, I push keys. It was the bicentennial and Los Angeles was still occupied, like the Gaza Strip.
I'm sorry Virginia, but I must mention it. The teacher gave her a C. The teacher zipper grind men in high places. Homosexuals are sick and Muslims hate Mexicans the teacher says... the teacher says he loves god.
A wounded old human, sleeping in the woods, still young. Sometimes he ate, sometimes not. But never did he speak to people, for no one spoke his language, or wanted to. There are no cultural ties, not one.
And when stuff happens, something begins.
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