The trees in the painting have dancing hands,
        they're zombies for the future.
It's physically moving but I don't know how
        Because it isn't, but it so obviously is.
Neon lights blink at me,
        Singing the buzzing of a bubblegum melody.
Streaming eyes, screaming laughter.
Examine me.
Clinging to your lips like a cigarette.
We're in a perfect atmosphere,
     living in a perfect scene.
You're the king of the Starlite Motel,
     and I get to be the queen.