It all started with a flash in the pan, a wink of an eye. From catalyst to catwalk to watching floorwork and getting that all important ride or the mere chance to rifle through her stuff to reclaim what was once yours, what is now yours and no longer hers (and whomever it belonged to before that) and/or what she'll never miss because it's blood money au-go-go. From this humble beginning where a new day dawned with inspiration coming through me and making music to bang strippers by and boldly go where no rocker had gone [Insert Here: her parents house at holiday; sweat drenched dark eternities in detox before the dawn] or just putting up with her for putting up with you, What does it all mean? She kills, thrills and spills it all over the place and I'm left to boogie (pronunced boo-gee) and all that lies ahead is something more than promise. A ripe reality round the corner as supple as her flesh when poured out of a sweaty 50's period piece on a hot and humid night. So beyond the drama, boldfaced lies, barely coherent rest of time together, it's about time I gave this one her due. I love you sparkly Les Paul. I will never sell you. Oh, the other girl. Bitch is on ice. Period.
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