For Slut-Bag

You said write it down, stick it to the paper and maybe it'll reminde you of how you stuck that year when blue panties rode higher than Heliosopical chariots and all the sad songs were made sadder because dreary seems to be in vogue. Happy music is for hapenstance but you've a lyric that'll birth the new maniacals. How many limping walks and down skirt draws that've festered those apostled waters. If it wasn't for the wine, then bars would be illegal and all that transpired an over ripened fiction. So who cares if we've a long walk and three red rings that never quite fit our hunter hands; there's more to waste that ca'tn be measured, more grime than shit house stalls; wait wait this is the best part when you hum a tune slapped together from our names.