I hate you, Frank. I hate you to the ends of my chewed off fingernails. The wealthy don't look down their noses the way you do and you're only as renewable as moonlight on my sheets or Seattle. I think you're canned food, Frank and you lost your rollerskates in the hudson. I think you're a man who ate a Kazoo and a Cello and a mongrel lost in mutt-love. You wear winter for hair , Frank, and your head is filled with clinking swizzle sticks and you can talk all the cross hatched green hillside you want but it doesn't make everything wheel stud and lug-nut. Go to hell , Frank or go catch a bus.