not yet I don't!

There’s blood in my mouth ‘cause I’ve been biting my tongue all week

I keep on talking trash but I never say anything.

And the talking leads to touching, and the touching leads to sex, and then there is no mystery left.

Fleetwood Mac - Dreams

Fog’s rolling in off the East River bank
Like a shroud it covers Bleecker Street
Fills the alleys where men sleep
Hides the shepherd from the sheep

Voices leaking from a sad cafe
Smiling faces try to understand
I saw a shadow touch a shadow’s hand
On Bleecker Street

A poet reads his crooked rhyme
Holy, holy is his sacrament
Thirty dollars pays your rent
On Bleecker Street

I head a church bell softly chime
In a melody sustaining
It’s a long road to Caanan
On Bleecker Street

Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life