Saturday, October 28, 2006
Cigarettes of Chocolate Milk (Rufus Wainwright)
I suppose technically it's not too late, but I feel a little bit bad that I haven't been being more seasonal. I mean, I could have done "Monster Mash," or something by The Cure, or maybe "My Heart Will Go On." Something. I'm just never quite prepared for these things. I suppose this means that I should get working on some Christmas carols now.
But, even if it's not a Halloween song particularly, this is still a nice song, and it came out well enough. I'll try to do something scary by Tuesday.
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Milk of cigarettes and chocolate:
those are a couple of my cravings, right?
It seems that I liked that a little thicker,
a little more extreme, a little harmful to me.
If I buy soft candies, then I
must eat them all while resting.
They seem a little larger than I like:
a little softer, a little harmful to me.
And then there are these other things
that we will not mention, for several reasons.
It's a little stranger about them, all
a little harder, a little mortal.
It makes a share
of pain so sorry.
Always rest here to remember.
The city, to me, is a shoe made for the
show. The places disappear just ahead. My song is about
the weak boys in the city, with whom the general faces have raced.
Wireplay, with prodigals of much
sentiment (catch the valiums!).
The world is ragged, but it's yours. Andy cannot expect that
while you're running everything on a vacuum
(a little headstock, with a wrinkling of the ol' eyebrows).
You maintain, obtain, in the
mystic reserve I play, all while facing ahead.
A lesson in the tightropes suggests a reading of
Kansas or "Adios, Surfer" or On High Hopes.
It's not very smart;
tends to make a share
of pain so sorry.
An exposure there; on my back. It still does not have
friendly holes or intervention.
I am a little Irish heiress, a little right turn, a little
Pisa. Of all the times that I see you,
I'm satisfied if you are pleasant. So that's a disorder.
Milk of milk, cigarette of cigarette,
and chocolate. And chocolate.