Pelham, formerly the worst musician/songwriter the world has known, has now devoted himself entirely to writing, no longer in his hometown of Melbourne (Australia) but rather in Paris (France).
I don't care for his excuses,
And I don't care for his sour, stinking breath.
And it tastes like the sour butter of crepes,
And the butter oozes down his face - I am disgusted.
She's an exquisite thing, and she's not mine,
And I see you're wearing the jewels I bought.
And there's a child on the stair, and it's Christmas,
And the people ask me what it is, and, I don't know.