Bela Lugosi\'s son

Little John is dead and he doesn\'t care.

Mr. Einstein has a sponge bath with turtles all around.

I heard you like white wine.

Bela Lugosi\'s son is eating crackers and watches the sun set in a David Lynch soap opera.

Nothing more but laziness and post-modernism.

Paintings with blue and female nudes in the living-room.

I like Chopin mixed with The Doors on a Sunday evening.

Let\'s travel together to Las Vegas and get married.

Wife and son, mother and uncle, girl and boy.

We are all alike in the Hungarian Dance, on a melody\'s high heels.

Bela Lugosi\'s son is drinking white butterflies and writing last autumn\'s poems.

On your neck, in your mind, while we become REM midnight lovers.