Tom Waits and violet roses. Man I want it all.
Satisfaction is death and I crave the gritty night sidewalks of LA. These days I want to recall the old voices and heroes. Oh Tom Waits, you are such a man. The voice for the outcast and prideful soul. The observant soul that stares from the dark into the greater darkness. You’re like a rude man’s Billy Joel.
My name is Jude. I might see you through and through.
Have you any songs left for me?
What will the future come to be?
Christen me, won’t you?