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Come on down to Calle Fiesta, it's in front of my house, in my house, in my arms, in my heart, in the arms, hearts and houses of my friends.
By all means! bring virtue or something else to get drunk on, a street is a line and a line extends into in-finitty city, Ciudad Fiesta, where the skyline is Direct Current and the bedrock is jazz and the name of this dance is Something is Seriously Burning.
Every clock and watch says something different and some of them don't say nothing at all. We've flooded the living room and are battling on tractor tire innertubes while ducks and dogs and terrified kitty cats quack and bark for dear life,
yes, dear life whom some only hold so when threatened with its revocation, instead of joining daily in its invocation: COME FORTH YE LIVING THINGS:
come forth and be inflated into animal heads with extra ears and new vocal chords that scream classical punk and funkies, Monk and monkeys, Caramba!
We've mastered the methods of climbing the walls without suction cups; fill the blenders with onions and free the laughing gas from its cylindrical prison for tearful tracheal spasms;
Pi¤atas scatter like Baghdadi Milk Factories in Tijuana and El Pueblo de Nuestra Se¤ora and the Queen screams "Green Celery!" across the ocean where they're storming the Bastille and stubbing their toes running from the god-damn bulls;
Sunny Jim spiderdancing and penning the Wake; sons of the four- headed scholar and daughters of the trunk-nosed nephew tell legends in shadows;
Dharmas beating the hoods of buses and cars and tables of estranged blues bars, their heirs shaking boxes of chickpeas and broken glass telling legends in the light in what should be national parks, knowing the other reason they have to bury them above the ground in New Orleans.
Find the heat, find the heat, find the candles that we'll be by, crooning in the wee hours and laughing at passed-out friends with teethmarks on their asses.