dead sad boys happen by the lake.
They drive round contained houses,
In bad to the bones tattoos.
They sing situationist songs of
broken female mischief and
reckless European football nights.
They read the stylists' paper, for the birds.
They paint single white Lolitas,
having heard the fiction of 'How to be Pink'.
As the Howl Pig burns the unyun,
We know that what ploughs the soul,
could ink the best.