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Once again, playing around in GarageBand.
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Lyrics
In a brief second the ancient ritual is over. "Hello," he has intoned one hundred and fifty six times that day so far, and now another. One hundred and fifty seven.
In warmer weather the girls at the schoolyard count higher as they leap over the rope.
Above in the flats overlooking the quiet snowfilled street the women, tired of counting their jumps, press coitally against the boys, now men, who jeered then, hoping for a taste of joy amidst the tedium. Ah, and ah. Right there. Yes. Just so. And again and again. And so on throughout the night for untold ages.
But the women wilted. Shriveled teats and screeching voice she sits before the television, cantankerous remains of the old religion of love's goddess. God is dead and we have killed her. And how shall we comfort ourselves? The old pornography, bare-chested women in glossy magazines.
We cannot reach out and touch. She sends her only begotten photograph.
He passes Alexander who knows these streets as well as any. Alexander who has laid claim to every bench from here to the gates of hell. Alexander who glares at the pretty ladies because he can no longer stare longingly.
"Hello," he says.
"Hello," replies Alexander. This is his third for the day, lonely as he is. They had said once he made conquest of every woman he could, visiting the skirts of Greeks and Punjabis alike. All morality called him depraved. No longer. Now he shrivels and they pray they do not see him.
In warmer weather the girls at the schoolyard count higher as they leap over the rope.
Above in the flats overlooking the quiet snowfilled street the women, tired of counting their jumps, press coitally against the boys, now men, who jeered then, hoping for a taste of joy amidst the tedium. Ah, and ah. Right there. Yes. Just so. And again and again. And so on throughout the night for untold ages.
But the women wilted. Shriveled teats and screeching voice she sits before the television, cantankerous remains of the old religion of love's goddess. God is dead and we have killed her. And how shall we comfort ourselves? The old pornography, bare-chested women in glossy magazines.
We cannot reach out and touch. She sends her only begotten photograph.
He passes Alexander who knows these streets as well as any. Alexander who has laid claim to every bench from here to the gates of hell. Alexander who glares at the pretty ladies because he can no longer stare longingly.
"Hello," he says.
"Hello," replies Alexander. This is his third for the day, lonely as he is. They had said once he made conquest of every woman he could, visiting the skirts of Greeks and Punjabis alike. All morality called him depraved. No longer. Now he shrivels and they pray they do not see him.
