So wild, standing there, with her hands in her hair.

I can’t help remember just when she touched me. There’s still no face here in her place. So cool: she was like jazz on a summer’s day: music, high and sweet.

I heard you cry aloud all the way across town. You’ve been searching for that someone — and it’s me out on the prowl— as you sit around feeling sorry for yourself.

I am colorblind. Coffee, black, and egg, white. Pull me out from inside.

I am ready. I am ready. I am ready. I am taffy-stuck and tongue-tied; stutter-shook and uptight. Pull me out from inside.

I was down at the New Amsterdam staring at this yellow-haired girl. Mr. Jones strikes up a conversation with a black-haired flamenco dancer. You know, she dances while his father plays guitar. She’s suddenly beautiful. Well we all want something beautiful.

You take a deep breath, and you walk through the doors. It’s the morning of your very first day. You say “hi” to your friends you ain’t seen in awhile. Try to stay out of everybody’s way.