I would cut my legs and tits off. When I think of Boris Karloff and Kinski. In the dark of the moon. It made me dream of Nosferatu. Trapped on the isle of Doctor Moreau. Oh wouldn’t it be lovely. I was thinking Peter Lorre. When things got pretty gory as I. Crossed to the Brandenburg Gate. I was feeling snappy perhaps I’d been napping. And I’d just ate. A following heart can tear you apart. On a midnight to 8 shift. A graveyard romance can only give one chance. As the tombstones weave and breathe. Feeling happy when my heart got beating. On a Sunday afternoon. I dreamt of breezes going through the treeses. And stars were still illumed. I have three hearts that I keep apart. Trying to relate. To normal feelings and the nightime reelings. And some absynthe drunk so late. The cook got drunk and all the whores they shrunk. Onto the size of dessert plates. But me I’m happy cause I got my little nappy. And some opium to set me straight. I’m just a small town girl who wants to give it a whirl. While my looks still hold me straight. Straight up to illusion and fantasy’s fusion. Of reality mixed with drink. I’m just a small town girl who’s gonna give life a whirl. Looking at the Brandenburg Gate