Jack They’re clamoring for Buddhists At the end of this sitcom Sometimes their hearts shake When nothing’s happening at all Like the gibberish they’re speaking Wondering what it means These underworld muses of Bedlam Who would like a drink Along with the monks On a Sunday afternoon After a brawl At a picture hall With mirrors breaking And stories they’re faking And IDs are required They find them eventually Then take off in a bus And strip off on a platform Separating the men from the dogs I’m setting love free Do not torture me Hate me But all love is blinded Whoever said otherwise Was laughing or lying Love always returns In a new disguise Like engines of blood Whenever it’s smiling But love will not work It returns later To pick up the dead With heads in the oven In need of more licks Should love be leaving?…