We hang on his arm
As he steers us through a New York party,
Dark and dirty.
Where everyone's so alive
We're afraid they'll drop
Right there and then
The girly, dancing corpses.

The men and ladies,
Not quite sure who's who
All pretty shady
And all pretty, in a shadowed sort of way
Death visits butterflies, too.

He tells us their stories
'Cause he's a strung-out reporter, a journalistic junkie
And his choicest weapon is his objectivity.

Candy hates her lovely body
And John believes in God
While David dresses loose and gaudy
And knows his voice is odd.

He sings it all in a speaking voice
Quite clear beneath the noise
Until his street-smart throat goes dry
And he tosses us a terse goodbye.

The narrator is gone,
And his characters attack;
Gibes and caresses
Out of the black.

They poke and prod and kiss our necks
Pressed quite close, someone checks
How much cash you've got.
Wonder what she wants that for.
Her fingers shook a lot.

We curse him and his honest tee shirt
For marooning us in this freakshow daydream
But I suppose we accepted the invitation;
"Nine PM, come ditch Momma's buttercream."

See him walking, candidly composing,
Next morning on the bleary street
Run away, he's a scary man,
Not the sort we'd like to meet.

But we'll listen, listen, from afar;
He knows things are stranger as they really are.