there's stones tied to my feet i'm pretty beat good sir, in your empty room, i don't get your nom-de-plume you'll hit the big time soon let me in your photograph album everyone's an audience waiting to happen the puddles rise so high we're walking on the sky you'll be a book until the day you die you find conrad so profound you're falling down, whiskies all round this delusion is so absurd the paper was the first we heard will you eat your words?
