Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Multi-millionaire Ernst Schiller arrived in the dead of night. Only the sound of a designer leather shoe on gravel echoed across the car park. Bracing himself against the freezing East London docklands winds, he moved towards the door of an 1936 chocolate coloured Jaguar inside which, bound and gagged was Brian Sewell, art critic muttering expletives under his breath.
Ernst was now mulling his grisly task. He took little in calling his only hope. With axe in one hand and a heavy heart he cut through the roof of the motor, shouting, "Abstract Expressionism ... get your labels RIGHT if you want to impress Princess Margaret's school chum.
Why would you steal Stone Gossard's plaid shorts after the House 'o Blues concert? Was that six words?", he muttered under his hoarse voice for muttering had replaced stuttering Bu, bu, bu, bu, but not always. Sometimes the stutter would get so bad, that an ambulance would arrive late.
Lest he forget the captive, children at the school by the delapidated playground, the seesaw rocking, firey painted nostrils splayed, crying out for help. But Ernst Schiller hadn't planned on St George to wander upon those same damp moors as the spirit of his lost cousin Ethel, whose pale skin reflected an eerie moonlight that made people wonder about demons. Yet here was St George, holding fast his Dragon Sword so ready to reveal its power and devotion to what's long been considered the most sacred yet dark of knowledge.
So, where do we go? Enrst asked himself. He had once been a dragon slayer, alchemist, soothsayer, medium and magus But now he felt unsure about his past, his future, even though his powers were as certain as his DNA. He'd need them, his millions and his art history knowledge in order for him to keep growing as a person of internationally formidable, fearsome reputation. Indeed, his certain inescapable destiny.
Now was the time to recover the paintings stolen in good faith, lest he be imprisoned in impressionism, hopelessly thickened in the sludge of fauvism, disfigured in cubism, or worse a critic, like Brian Sewell. That infernal Sewell, with his misogynistic views of the world. No! That wasn't a fair assessment of the incapacitated man. It WAS his car, and Ernst removed Brian's gag reluctantly. He knew that there'd be a cacophony, splitting the night but he was somewhat curious
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
oh scary... 40000 morbidly obese christians wearing fanny packs invading europe is probably the least scariest thing since I watched an edited version of The Care Bears movie in an extremely brightly lit cinema.
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Comments
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Ernst was now mulling his grisly task. He took little in calling his only hope. With axe in one hand and a heavy heart he cut through the roof of the motor, shouting, "Abstract Expressionism ... get your labels RIGHT if you want to impress Princess Margaret's school chum.
Why would you steal Stone Gossard's plaid shorts after the House 'o Blues concert? Was that six words?", he muttered under his hoarse voice for muttering had replaced stuttering Bu, bu, bu, bu, but not always. Sometimes the stutter would get so bad, that an ambulance would arrive late.
Lest he forget the captive, children at the school by the delapidated playground, the seesaw rocking, firey painted nostrils splayed, crying out for help. But Ernst Schiller hadn't planned on St George to wander upon those same damp moors as the spirit of his lost cousin Ethel, whose pale skin reflected an eerie moonlight that made people wonder about demons. Yet here was St George, holding fast his Dragon Sword so ready to reveal its power and devotion to what's long been considered the most sacred yet dark of knowledge.
So, where do we go? Enrst asked himself. He had once been a dragon slayer, alchemist, soothsayer, medium and magus But now he felt unsure about his past, his future, even though his powers were as certain as his DNA. He'd need them, his millions and his art history knowledge in order for him to keep growing as a person of internationally formidable, fearsome reputation. Indeed, his certain inescapable destiny.
Now was the time to recover the paintings stolen in good faith, lest he be imprisoned in impressionism, hopelessly thickened in the sludge of fauvism, disfigured in cubism, or worse a critic, like Brian Sewell. That infernal Sewell, with his misogynistic views of the world. No! That wasn't a fair assessment of the incapacitated man. It WAS his car, and Ernst removed Brian's gag reluctantly. He knew that there'd be a cacophony, splitting the night but he was somewhat curious
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green