Justin Ringle, weirdly pretty Justin Ringle with your slight baldiness, and sticky out ears, and infinitely pretty smile, your words make lots of sense today. Maybe. Maybe not the sense you gave them. Maybe the sense I give them is different.
Stalling, stalling, the hardwood of pews is calling. We
want this news. Lovely ladies make pretty babies, it's true. That
woman's not you. Take your body and clothes to places he won't go. Your
life as you know is hopeless, it'll happen too slow. Oh, she's tricked,
she was trapped. Her body was lacking white and red, those hues lost in
bed. Oh, they would speak language exacting. Oh, they would lay, parts
practicing. And through it all he won't call. Lovely ladies take your
beauty to your grave.
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I went dancing last night, in a ridiculous gold dress. My lovely friend Phill told me lies about me looking pretty, because he is lovely, and recognises my ego is shot to shit and I have the self esteem of an unattractively speckled newt. We all danced, at the second to last Underachievers ever, and for a time we danced with one of Corky's favourite bands, Epic45, who we saw earlier in the evening at the Night & Day. I met a lady called Elaine who's in a plethora of bands, and my gold dress got invited back stage at the Night & Day for free beer. But downstairs in the Night & Day smells of wee, and there was dancing to be had, and merriment to be made. I will miss Underachievers when it is gone.
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