The Hollow Horn Plays Wasted

It's Very Tiring Having Other People Tell You How Much They Dig You If You Yourself Don't Dig You.

Well, It's Hard To Stumble And Land In Some Muddy Lagoon When It's Nine Below Zero And Three O'clock In The Afternoon.

Idiot Wind, Blowing Every Time You Move Your Teeth. You're An Idiot Babe, It's A Wonder That You Still Know How To Breathe.

They're Selling Postcards Of The Hanging They're Painting The Passports Brown The Beauty Parlor Is Filled With Sailors The Circus Is In Town Here Comes The Blind Commissioner They've Got Him In A Trance One Hand Is Tied To The Tight-rope Walker The Other Is In His Pants And The Riot Squad They're Restless They Need Somewhere To Go As Lady And I Look Out Tonight From Desolation Row.

Really The Truth Is Just A Plain Picture. A Plain Picture Of, Let's Say, A Tramp Vomiting In The Sewere. You Know, And Next Door To The Picture Mr. Rockefeller Or Mr. C. W. Jones On The Subway Going To Work. You Know, Any Kind Of Picture. Just Make A Collage Of Pictures.