When you see a guy reach for stars in the sky You can bet that he's doing it for some doll.
I string sounds together. But to string them I have to remember a bunch of old ones I heard somewhere and then juggle them into a new rhythm and shape.
Somebody, somewhere Wants me and needs me And that's very wonderful to know.
You dogs are smart enough to know that worry is something you do with a bone, and let it got at that. Even Pavlov couldn't do any more than prove that your brain is in your gut--something that you knew all along.
I hear music Mighty fine music, The murmur of a morning breeze up there The rattle of the milkman on the stair Sure that's music.
Oh! to be loved by a man I respect, To bask in the glow of his perfectly understandable neglect.
What I really have a sense of dismay about is that there is a center of anything. I think maybe Cleveland can use one. Also possibly Los Angeles needs informed cultural guidance and a place to go get it. But not New York. New York is a center, a world's fair, and a den of thieves, and a house of miracles.
Luck, be a lady tonight.
How beautiful the days, They come and go.
A secretary is not a toy.
A secretary is not a thing Wound by key, pulled by string. Her pad is to write in, And not spend the night in, If that's what you plan to enjoy.
But more I cannot wish you Than to wish you find your love Your own true love this day.
Brother, do you know a nicer occupation, Matter of fact, neither do I, Than standing on the corner Watching all the girls go by?
Me, I'm complicated. But it's a living, I tell myself. Also, every once in a long while this disease manages to produce a fine and beautiful truth--as (they say) some oyster illness makes the wondrously perfect pearl.
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