on earth, on earth on earth ... hey hey hey will someone
please nip into the control room and turn that digital echo
off please? I'm trying to write a bit of doomed poetry out
here and it's really not helping.
That's better. Why oh why oh why oh. No. I'm still getting
It. Look, are you sure you turned it off? No. No, that's the
compressor. It's the one in the rack underneath ... hallo?
Green flashing light. Yeah. That's the one. Whaddjamean
"It's not there"?
This is still the studio isn't it? It's not? A police station?
Okay okay. Well, ask the desk sergeant if he can go into
the control room and by-pass the echo unit and while he's
about it, get him to roll some of that bass off. I'm getting
a horrible rumble every time the studio - I mean cell door
That's better. Right. This poem. Why oh why oh why oh ...
Hey! This is getting beyond a bloody joke. Not only
am I still getting the echo, but now I can hear voices
in the background. A male one and a female one.
My solicitor? Wow. She's quite pretty isn't she? But
who's the bloke? Oh ... he's my solicitor. So the girl is ... ?
My girlfriend ... Right. Yup. Well. Absolutely.
But all these wasted opportunities. The cuts and bruises
This headache. The deep yearnings and cravings. The
constant desire to be misunderstood in a doomed kinda
way. And this repeating echo. That's the drugs? Right.
But what about the periodic arrests and all these guys
in blue clothes? Oh. That's the reality? Right. Ermm ...
Yep. No. Not at all. Thanks for clearing that up for me.
So I'll stop then, shall I?Reuse content