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I'd make me into a brand new sailor if I were God Maybe there were new things over there It comes from within me to write as though rabid, I'm hungry, do you understand Let the doctors call it what they will Who can know anything best of all What does it mean to know anything best Which religion doesn't grow old
Gulls into the water, women proudly into the bazaars I was going to write a poem, I was stifling, fed up with old things Eat, my mother says, but they're all things I've grown accustomed to, in the end.
Like Camus and — I don’t know — people like that, I'm cracking up Everything will begin when it untangles itself from your hair
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