Let's talk about Andrea...
Let's talk about the fact that she holds secret rites with voodoo dolls and whipped cream.
Let's talk about heartache, and the loss of God,
Wandering wandering in the hopeless night,
Where we find her, and she feeds us Halibut.
Let's also talk about that mill I used to work at, and cedar shavings, the rash you get.
You know what? If you're mean, she can give it to you.
I bet she likes vanilla pudding. Isn't she a stud.
Let's also talk about the fact that she happens to hold a fist around my neck right now,
And can squeeze it if she feels like it,
And I'd be a mere mortal like the rest of you punks.
Let's talk about bumming dogs and walking cigarettes to start a conversation with her.
Let's talk about all those little logs you used to watch on the Beachcombers
And the fact that in reality, they were just extensions of Andrea's consciousness.
But above all else, let's talk about a loose obedience to a vegetable law;
Dammit, I bet Andrea makes damn good pirogies.
--some guy named Steve