And if one day I should become a singer with a Spanish bum who sings for women of great virtue, I'd sing to them with a guitar I borrowed from coffee bar. (Well, what you don't know doesn't hurt you!)
My name would be Antonio, and all my bridges I would burn; and if I gave them some they'd know I expect something in return. I'd have to get drunk every night to talk about virility with some old grandmother who might be decked out like a Christmas tree. And though pink elephants I'd see, I'd sing the song they sang to me about the time they called me Jackie.
If I could be for, only an hour . . .
If I could be for, an hour every day . . .
If I could be for, just one little hour: cute, cute, cute in a stupid-a** way!
And if I joined the social whirl, became procurer of young girls, then I would have my own bordellos. My record would be number one and I'd sell records by the ton, all sung by many other fellows. My name would then be Handsome Jack, and I'd sell boats of opium, whiskey that came from Twickenham, authentic queers and phony virgins. I'd have a bank on every finger, a finger in every country -- and every country ruled by me! I still know where I'd want to be: locked up inside my opium den, surrounded by some Chinamen. I'd sing the song that I sang then about the time they called me Jackie.
 dyejob · Wed Feb 27, 2008 @ 11:24am · 0 Comments |
