The angels was standing behind the spindly mohawked goth, who possessed the sardonic of wit of Walt Whitman and the hair style of fog horn leghorn. In spite of his handicapped hairdo the seraphim were lewdly close trying to hear the thoughts of a true genius. You would of thought his innermost whispers where being read by an archangel the way they fiend for his dialogue as he poe-ed…

“I am not going to sing about a girl“

“I am not going to sing about a girl“

“I am not going to sing about a girl“

Reason gave way to infatuation as the thick smoke in the Berlin dive parted like starcrossed lovers when he exhaled the last bit of smoke and spoke to his subjects.

“ THIS IS A SONG ABOUT A GIRL “

Then the angels wept.