huffing the proverbial line off the proverbial dong - or - the blood and the frog in my throat

you can dig what you don't understand, boy. Hell, sometimes it's all the only way. And the attictude's so fucking exciting, and the fashion of it's all the fucking rage. These are hammers on strings making notes, babe- with the blood and the frog in my throat. These are binders covered in bad poetry, now knowing what it's really all about.

Oh where, oh where... did you get that shit-eating grin that you wear?
And what, or who got you through the door?
You're a piece of meat on the killing floor.

These are closed and velvet ropes and a curtain-sipping cokes. To be certain, its's so slow that it's hurting. Don't you know...?

Take your chances in the killing fields with all the snakes and dogs. And dance 'til you bleed and bone touches steel and all your hope is gone.