The Kings of Norway
They all were going around trying to prove themselves, litigating the case for their own worth: Look at me, look at me, look at me—I matter, don’t I?
They’re just a bunch of gay jocks, that’s allEmpty in the head, clomping around
You had a rod up your ass, like all the pianists I know
pretentious scales, that’s all it is. They want me to go in and play them a fucking waltz and then walk out. That’s it.
Please stop making porn.
Look at me, look at me, look at me—I matter, don’t I?
Happy Birthday, I love youCall me when you’re free
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The bubbly letters were both a direction and a justification for the lines of people who shelled out $37.50 for a forty-five-minute “experience” at “the sweetest place on earth.”