a sweet little bullet from a pretty blue gun.

now it's raining it's pouring
the old man is snoring
now i lay me down to sleep
i hear the sirens in the street
all my dreams are made of chrome
i have no way to get back home
i'd rather die before i wake
like marilyn monroe
and throw my dreams out in
the street and the
rain make 'em grow

--tow waits