There are thousands dance to the atrocity of the wartime blues. He thinks it's a shit dance but he likes the war and romance. Animal day, send me to war. Me and the boxer. Animal day, send me to war, then make a charity. He has a thing about pretty things and the machines of history. He lives in a little black box in the midst of obscurity. All the censored things, the terminal disease, The filth and obscenity, running the charities And all the pretty things feeding our memory.