[for helen]
I've got sunshine
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.
I tried romantic gestures. Down on bended knee, diamong ring, the whole deal, for Tina. And you know how that worked out: lawyers, judges, custody hearings for a son no one knows I've got. None of it matters here, except now I'll never see my son at all. Guess I wasn't gonna see him at home, either, being dead, but...yeah.
Anyway, a'ight, point is, romance really hasn't worked out for me. Strippers, either. I still see Joanna falling out of my car some nights, and, man, roofies and sex, dead girls, dead scumbags and time in lock-up, that'll fuck your shit up.
But fucked-up as my shit is, Helen wants my black ass. It's not conventional, but that's a'ight. See Tina for reference on me and traditional, y'know what I'm saying? Grams might not approve, but she ain't here, Cath's not, Griss and Sara aren't either, but Helen is. And, damn, if I don't love the girl.
So it's Valentine's Day, dead strippers and nasty divorces can bite me. I've got plans. I asked Helen to meet me in the Willows Room after she and Grayson - the original Robin, man, my girl's teaching amateur stripping with Batman's Boy Wonder; that's weird - get done with the class.
Island helped me out a little. Decorated the place like a real old time jazz club, classy and cool, a single rose in a vase on each table, heart-shaped crystal votive holders with red candles, and a silver champagne bucket with crystal flutes at the foot of my keyboard bench. I snagged a bottle of bubbly from the bar, signed my life away from chocolates and flowers, and sweet-talked the box into a red silk shirt to go with a pair of black jeans.
I turn the sound way low on my amps, sit and run through the song I've been writing over and over, and I just barely have time to quit before the door opens. I probably look like a prairie dog in the headlights...
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.
I tried romantic gestures. Down on bended knee, diamong ring, the whole deal, for Tina. And you know how that worked out: lawyers, judges, custody hearings for a son no one knows I've got. None of it matters here, except now I'll never see my son at all. Guess I wasn't gonna see him at home, either, being dead, but...yeah.
Anyway, a'ight, point is, romance really hasn't worked out for me. Strippers, either. I still see Joanna falling out of my car some nights, and, man, roofies and sex, dead girls, dead scumbags and time in lock-up, that'll fuck your shit up.
But fucked-up as my shit is, Helen wants my black ass. It's not conventional, but that's a'ight. See Tina for reference on me and traditional, y'know what I'm saying? Grams might not approve, but she ain't here, Cath's not, Griss and Sara aren't either, but Helen is. And, damn, if I don't love the girl.
So it's Valentine's Day, dead strippers and nasty divorces can bite me. I've got plans. I asked Helen to meet me in the Willows Room after she and Grayson - the original Robin, man, my girl's teaching amateur stripping with Batman's Boy Wonder; that's weird - get done with the class.
Island helped me out a little. Decorated the place like a real old time jazz club, classy and cool, a single rose in a vase on each table, heart-shaped crystal votive holders with red candles, and a silver champagne bucket with crystal flutes at the foot of my keyboard bench. I snagged a bottle of bubbly from the bar, signed my life away from chocolates and flowers, and sweet-talked the box into a red silk shirt to go with a pair of black jeans.
I turn the sound way low on my amps, sit and run through the song I've been writing over and over, and I just barely have time to quit before the door opens. I probably look like a prairie dog in the headlights...