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