I Always Write Well In New York.

I'm A Phallus In Pigtails, And There's Blood On My Nose, And My Tissue Is Rotting Where The Rats Chew My Bones. And My Eye Sockets Empty, See Nothing But Pain, I Keep Having This Brainstorm About Twelve Times A Day.

He Took It All Too Far, But Boy Could He Play Guitar.

It's Not The Side-effects Of The Cocaine - I'm Thinking That It Must Be Love. It's Too Late To Be Grateful, It's Too Late To Be Hateful, It's Too Late To Be Late Again, The European Cannon Is Here.

And I Think My Spaceship Knows Which Way To Go.

Sweet Head, Give You Sweet Head.