I don’t believe in myself
in the way I don’t believe in Santa Claus,
in good ol’ Tricky Nick of yesteryear
– always leaving the stockings empty.

And by now I’ve learned to fill’em with songs of your skin,
whispers of better days waiting in the wings.

I pass by this smoking blonde
– yeah, smoking in both senses of the word –
and flinch at her pin eyes; a doll in her voodoo world.
May my day be the taste of her on my tongue:
it is L&M.