I Think That's Nice, And If I

Nothing In Life Is Fair. Fair Is A Dirty Word And I'll Thank You Not To Use That Language Around Me.

Nothing Else Loves Me, Or Ever Will. Not Even - Especially - Me. I Know What I Am And That Is Not A Thing To Love.

It's That Moon Again, Slung So Fat And Low In The Tropical Night, Calling Out Across A Curdled Sky And Into The Quivering Ears Of That Dear Old Voice In The Shadows, The Dark Passenger, Nestled Snug In The Backseat Of The Dodge K-car Of Dexter's Hypothetical Soul. That Rascal Moon, That Loudmouthed Leering Lucifer, Calling Down Across The Empty Sky To The Dark Hearts Of The Night Monsters Below, Calling Them Away To Their Joyful Playgrounds.

Rectory Always Sounded To Me Like A Place Where You Would Find A Proctologist.

The Mind Picks Some Very Bad Times To Take A Walk Doesn't It?