red wine and coffee, in a rainstorm, is better than just about anything. except maybe polka dots, or black molasses cookies. the amps are crying! they're crying, i say, and the telephone is ringing. but no one can hear it, anyway. because there is a banjo, and an irish dirge, and 13,000 voices singing loud beneath the cobwebs and the chandeliers. electronic whales are swimming through the coffeehouse, and as the static arises, there is a man on a bench, carrying a mandolin on his acid dreams. the calico couples are sitting on couches with coffee stains on their knees, but that doesn't matter. there is a violin playing loud in the attic, and a llama in the trees.
a one-man band, bagpipes, fresh bread, and a bag full of apples that taste like cider.
sweatpants and thermals, at the farmer's market.
harmonizing at three in the morning with five guitars and a drum and sing-a-longs that are so spontaneous and off-key and filled with the blues...
i love being irish.
so come all you weavers, you calton weavers, come all you weavers, where e'er you be
beware of whiskey, nancy whiskey, she'll ruin you like she ruined me
whiskey whiskey nancy whiskey
whiskey whiskey nancy-o
'they wanted footnotes. the illiterate fucks!'