grooverider

and just for good measure--



"She had that
Camarillo brillo
Flamin out along her head,
I mean her mendocino bean-o
By where some bugs had made it red

She ruled the toads
Of the short forest
And every newt in idaho
And every cricket who had chorused
By the bush in buffalo

She said she was
A magic mama
And she could throw a mean tarot
And carried on without a comma
That she was someone I should know

She had a snake for a pet
And an amulet
And she was breeding a dwarf
But she wasnt done yet
She had gray-green skin
A doll with a pin
I told her she was awright
But I couldnt come in
(I couldnt come in right then...)

And so she wandered
Trough the door-way
Just like a shadow from the tomb
She said her stereo was four-way
An Id just love it in her room

Well, I was born
To have adventure
So I just followed up the steps
Right past her fuming incense stencher
To where she hung her castanets

She stripped away
Her ranchid poncho
An laid out naked by the door
We did it till we were un-concho
An it was useless any more

She had a snake for a pet
And an amulet
And she was breeding a dwarf
But she wasnt done yet
She had gray-green skin
A doll with a pin
I told her she was awright
But I couldnt come in
(actually, I was very busy then)

And so she wandered
Trough the door-way
Just like a shadow from the tomb
She said her stereo was four-way
An Id just love it in her room

Well, I was born
To have adventure
So I just followed up the steps
Right past her fuming incense stencher
To where she hung her castanets

She said she was
A magic mama
And she could throw a mean tarot
And carried on without a comma
That she was someone I should know

(is that a real poncho...i mean
Is that a mexican poncho
Or is that a sears poncho?
Hmmm...no foolin ...)"

Unusual name, but has a certain ring to it. I have to warn you though, I cant play any instrument bar the keyboard. A good idea nonetheless.

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees-
Those dying generations- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence:
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity,

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come

William Yeats - Sailing to Byzantium