The Reason for This Tune

 I put my fingers in my best friend's mouth.

Every day I'm lookin forward to a bottle of gin again.

I splayed out for the women who live in Portsmouth,

Virginia. 

They didn't know anything about my name until I told ya.

I wanted to find a reason to write a really good novel,

so someone would think maybe it's really my life

and they would take sympathy.

I'm probably gay for lots of people who don't have hands,

but they have perfect faces, lookin out towards the moon and the sea at the same time.

Watery drips, chinese torturing machines wanted them to make me seem

like a hangman's dreamscape, little bits of time stuck in his eyelids.

Leonard Cohen washed my toenails, cause he saw me feeding my best friend.

I dip my fingers in some thin ass grey gravy. He sucks them dry. He sucks the meat from my bone.

I wanted to call a phone back, but I made up a stupid number.

Where's the rhyme and the rhythm? What is the reason for this tune?

Maybe next year we'll live on the moon. Maybe 500 years will caress our swoon.

We can begin to blow up our minds, a baloon of time.

Every point is further from our minds.

We must make it up to them by writing our thoughts in paper and ink.

We must think what we have become, what we should have done.

It will resolve itself until we have begun.