Darling Baby Witchy boo.

It’s made up of chocolate and stop bath.
Words, words, words.
Unmentionable words.
Ambiguos words.
Brilliant stinking words.
“I really...”
Darling Baby Witchy boo.
Make up and Cocteau’s.
The difficulty of being a transvestite.
“My god honey,
you just don’t know how much it cost
to make me look this cheap!”
This banal, this happy.
YIKE!
Darling Baby Witchy boo.
A word got through by radar pigeon
from the fat pineapple distributor.
“God Bless Cider” is what it said.
Then a voice cuts in,
some bloke sounding like he’s auditioning for 1956 says:
“Sorry...a technical problem has occurred.
Please hang up and try again.”
So he did.
Darling Baby Witchy boo.
Yes. Stop right there.
She knows you know the rain, the rain
of course the rain;
and eccentricity.
King David of Bradford,
the black Christ crack addict
another patch of blackness
Darling Baby Witchy boo
Welcome to Bradford.