cNutgroist

and wouldnt you know, a few minutes afterwards, the genital irritant that is nutgroist found this in her own berlin-era bowie world...

Every time I make a move
I leave a little love behind
It frees me up for pleasures new
but i feel empty as a mind

Oh, Senegal where are you now?
Your propane grills and sacred cows
are flame-grilled on this lover's heart
scorched with ancient, tribal art

And when will I see you again?
My dusky, dancing Samarkand
Delights ive had them many there
for then now and then, then and

the steppes of old Niagara fell
into the porcelain of your face
that basin where i wash my soul
weary til it you embrace

there's nowhere left for me to go
where i still feel out of place
even the boudoir of a Persian Princess
tangled up in 'rabian lace

i've got to get away, yes, get away
an international man is never at home
unless he's taking the shuttle today
somewhere new where his hearts can roam

this is major tom at the check-in desk
i'd like a flight to spa-aa-aa-ce
i've got my bags all packed and ready to go-oo-oo-oo
my van heusen shirts are pressed, now the papers kn-oo-oo-oo-w
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