6th Street scene, me like a Wallflower, if I sang; if I lived in Texas I'd have to form my own gang. High heeled blondies, beefy baby boys with hair like Capote. Downtown paradise, await my moment on stage, fly gleefully with wireless, love Texas accents, have a cute stress recorder, it's so much like Tronno.
Stevie Ray Vaughan stetson wings on a river with bronze string. Lutists, artists like a lootbag, sweaty boys whiz, caffeine squeeze like oj, scabs on rock hard abs and mexican lime soda fizz, enchilada pigs. We snatch signals on a cafe patio, Austin to Boston, coffee and toffee, mosh pit mania and dirt trail llamas, I segue, the Segways on the sidealk, gawk, talk how silly and sinister two-wheeled half-cocked automobile replacements — I'm sipping mocha warm and sultry 5 feet 9 from the pavement.
And it's bubbly and outlandish, there's Barbie everywhere - can I help but stare? [Oh don't think I'm in trouble, my lady don't berate; she's so much more lovely and we quiver as we wait.] Fair hair here and there — got that oblivious aristocratic 'my city — built by slaves' air.
And this afternoon I'm a buffoon. I'm on stage soon. We want gold for Canada, to celebrate the loon.
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