Into pieces small and not of this world, into bits I go and you are made glad.

We are all about the round and round. I go to the heavy and it's the pursing of lips that you want.

The smacking sounds of it. The mackeral skin.

I don't know how rightly to say it, these are not sayable things. They want for a six string behind them and a flute to haunt. But it's not Friday night, and there's no band. There's no band at all.

You might be my significant other, you might. Or you might be anyone at all. It fits, in this way we have. It fits tightly like a board to a board, a band to a band.

You might altogether be my significant rather. And the song would be better.

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