The music box plays Copacabana
in a resort in the Alps and yeah.
It’s in the clicking food hall,
in the lifting bits of sound.
Syllables that break and stand.
Summer is coming; Europe is in our dreams,
send me a postcard from Amsterdam,
I will sweat on your lipstick.
A centipede got smashed on the floor,
on the tiles a centipede got squashed.
Nightmares of clarity pop-up,
and I can’t follow the line.
Lola is happy with her promotion.
She waves goodbye with a white scarf.