It's desperate the way our reverse-wumming is forcing CFC to post random rubbish just to prove he's not a fairweather fan
The tactful cactus by your window Surveys the prairie of your room The mobile spins to its collision Clara puts her head between her paws They've opened shops down the West side Will all the cacti find a home But the key to the city Is in the sun that pins The branches to the sky, oh, oh, oh David Bowie - Eight Line Poem
He's pining for Stan. Stan's the only one that can give him a thought because let's face it, he can't think for himself.