Chunky on the shag rug, I'm looking for my anthem, I'm looking for my head-
phones, I'm looking for the bare spot on the rug to wallow, side-
stepped on the chair-stopped door. I blast my ears out.
I'm looking at pictures of you, my Catholic prince, my mother-father proxy, I'm
in London--the koi pond, the flamingo, the statues, the hymnal, the Aretha
Franklin song at the funeral. Alone on a pew, I watch the water.
I'm watching the bare spot on the rug, filled with pictures on the floor, I'm ignoring
the knocks on the door. I'm ignoring the knocks on the door. Stepped and
stripped on the chair-stopped door, I'm listening, listening. 
 The Prophet's Song (Alternate Take)
The bottomless pit and the hero's return. Villagers slither from the storefronts, give the
once-over, their game interrupted with black-light posters. We lip-synched until our
Stoned Friend Eric rattled in his chair, shaking, as if being executed.
So, Mr. Christgau of the Village Voice, this one "wasn't messed up"? Wasn't messed up?
Can you hear me? You're too old bitch, your predictions too secretive and out of date,
out of print. Everything is dead around you.
You can attack the lyrical impulse, but you cannot stop it.