I spy for the "Spirit of Curiousity". All the scandals of each vain monstrosity. I gossip and I pry and I insinuate. If the failure is great. Then it tends to fascinate. A tornado dropped a funnel cloud with twenty tons of rain. Though she had the attention span of warm cellophane. Her lovers fell like skittles in a 10-pin bowling lane. But nothing could compare with that explosion of fame. So you jumped back with alarm. Every Elvis has his army. Every rattlesnake its charm. Can you still hear me?. Am I coming through just fine?. Your memory was buried in a simple box of pine. Did her green eyes seduce you and make you get so weak?. Was there fire engine red that she left upon your cheek?. It's such a shame you had to break the heart. You could have counted onbut the last thing you need is another. ...Episode of blonde. Revolving like a jeweller's figure on a music box. Spangled curtain parted and a night-club scene unlocks. Pinned and fixed and fastened in a follow spot. Arms thrown out to everyone she's giving all she's got. To the last gasp of a wounded bandeon. Tiny man imploring to the cieling fan. This stolen feeling. Amplified up through a busted speaker. Blaring blasting advertising distorted beyond reason. Into the street where petty crime-coats shadow panic drunkards. Half out of the taxi cab the barker seized my elbow. He thought I was another lonely likely pilgrim looking for St.Telmo. Repeat chorus. I tried to keep a straight face but you know it never pays. He would stare into those eyes and then vacation in her gaze. She was a cute little ruin that he pulled out of the rubble. Noe they are both living in a soft soap bubble. The film producer's contemplating entertaining suicide. The picture crumpled in his fist his runaway child bride. The timepiece stretched across a wrist. She couldn't care less cast aside. The scent that so repelled him that he swore: "insecticide". And there's a farewell note to mother. That will conclude "Your loving Son". "Oh tell your other children not to do as I have done.". Chorus. So an artist drags a toothbrush across the first thing that he sees. And names the painting "Christ's Last Exit into Purgatory". Receiving secret messages from an alien intelligence. Paying off his stalker it's a legitimate expense. So paste up pictures of those shrill and hollow girls. With puckered lips. She's a trophy on your arm. A magnet for your money clip. The moral of this story is the sorry tale to say.