Poor guy, sitting there drinking cappucinos all the damn day, chatting up barristas with boobies, and getting paid for it. It’s sad. He says silly shit about shooting people, and they laugh. It’s all true, but they laugh, and he lets them. It’s just sad.
I’d shoot them, myself, but that’s me.
Have some music.
Let me sing you a song
About old Uncle Arved from Arvin
(it’s rural, you know, so it’s honest)
To the grinning apples of his eyes
he gave the keys of his kingdom
every code known to man, money and all
Now he sits naked in his tub
with his beard to his knees
screaming about bugs on the ceiling–
the bugs who tend him–
the bugs who feed him–
the bugs who keep him so assiduously safe–
Oh, they never let him out
They never let him talk much on the phone
They never do
They never will
Uncle Arved from Arvin might tell.
You never know.
He’s quite mad.