Last Night

She looked at me once, and I felt like I'd been feathered and tarred
She shaved her head after the fashion of the avant-garde
Her voice wasn't great, but I'd pay just to hear her guitar
So anyway, so anyway
We hit it off
I became her willing audience, her couch was softer than my bed
I wrote letters of intent that went straight into her garbage unread
She tickled till it itched and then I sctratched that itch so hard that it
bled
So anyway, so anyway
We hit it off
I painted 100 portraits of her in pastels and oil
She lied to the cops for me
I believe that I'm spoiled
Up cripple creek she sends me
While I wrap her head in gum