I can't see blue velvet though my tears

As I stand on my numb leg, in that dark dark closet of mine

On the sly, I see you, crawling stark naked on a cocaine floor

That slumps into bad bad crime...

Sure I could pry open that sick cunt of yours, oh my, oh my

But I 'm too bemused and a bit blue too

To coax thou up and off you are to Funny Town with

Jo Lee and Dill Dostar.

No can't do for a crowbar, a cross or a clue

As I sit to unwhore you.

I can't see blue velvet through my tears

For the sandman has kissed me blue,

For the Dandyman has shot thou thru

And I drift, and I drift , nailed to a flimsy wall

Twang twang—

Love me two for one with no halves between you and me on the whole

Monsieur Godin or the all-changing breaking-up,A Theme

A lite chat for your little pussycat

That may dream the rest away

But Kant sees and God knows I try

Two counts dancing beebop, oh my,

So trite and so tight-lipped

You stay with no script, 'cause

They can't tease thy pain a way.

A Passe-porte for the Louvre

As we paced back and forth in the maze of the huddled hushed statues, it suddenly dawned on me Chéri that the numbed one-eyed sphere was Trapp. Embezzzled in the slut-machine of the no-space outside, I press your hand and you smile a farcical rainbow. Oh je t'adore Monsieur (pronounced in a droll drawl as you cuddle me). Got two for an exit, a snubbed-nose man exclaims. "Get lost", We say in a criss-cross song a silly mallard told me last Friday. But we want to get out, into the entre-chambre of Monsignore and, there, low after the ascending, semi-impressed flight of stairs, there, the crimson, all-red and glowing magnifique spectacolo. Take a snap, two shots, and I swoon into your arms, oh my! Can I love you More, Thomas, than this long asparagus of a woman with the circled white scarf who winks at you. "Ailuv Yoo" (by the way you can only hear that ancient old song when wrapped under a quilt with your petite sweetie. Well, anyway, shall we stay here, after all, we are not far from A Better Place.

Le Maître-Fourreur

Ah Martine, sitôt étiez-vous montée sur ce tabouret en peau d'Alembour,

Queue, ah coquine,je suis si oppressé, que la commune mesure,

Celle-la même qui sied au commerce des peaux retournées et détroussées,

Me fit percevoir l'entre-jambe à peine tiédie d'une fente,

A laquelle j'eusse aimé apporter mon ouvrage.

Mais il me fallait mettre une main engourdie par trop de lubricant ,

Sur un pic à poinçon.Pouah, fîtes-vous, ô gourgandine adorable,

votre trousse à crins, soit dit en passant aussi peu garnie, c'est un crime!, fit une culbute,

Sur un sol rendu glissant par quelque ténébreuse sortie d'une autre Bonne

A tout faire.

Un doigt mignon pénétrant en sûreté dans un orifice tout aussi rose semblait m'écrire

Quelque sucrerie dont j'avais encore le goût.

A coups fourrés!