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All of the stage names evaporate, and it's just a blood-flushed and heart-rushing race either to kick off too soon or stick around too late, to be far too dear or too cut-rate.

Hold my hand again, like at the lake. Hold that mirror, babe, up to my face. Hear the whippoorwill? Am I breathing still?

A Hollywood Babylon bike-a-thon for breakdancers all broken down in their beds, now intravenously fed from a bag hanging over their heads. Can I put you down for some miles? What do you say? Because don't you know it's going to be a long, long way. But if you've got the cash, I'm ready to bust my ass.

So take this thin, broken-down circus clown reject and give her the name of a queen. Don't I know her from the mezzanine? Well, she didn't look like no princess to me. But with the proper words bestowed, and with her morning shoot, and her evening clothes, don't call her a prostitute - she ain't one of those - just call her a proper little statue come unfroze.
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