Like a train wreck. A really big one. With balloons and a broken piano and Bob Dylan and Tom Waits and Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen all singing four part harmony. And the instrumentalists are all hobos on heroine. And the firefighters are too distracted by the beauty of the dancing girls to put them out. And the wings of all the ostriches have been clipped so they can't fly. And the squirrels run amuck, and steal sandwiches from un-attentive picnickers, and bury them in the potato salad.

Someone blows on a lone trombone, a mile in the distance. A sort of tepid, unbalanced low note with purple undertones. Maybe there's a banjo playing, but it's hard to hear over all melancholy. A drummer walks over the horizon, beating on a copper pot and calling the kettle yellow.

There's an angry sort of rattle coming from underneath the sink. It's an off beat of 6/8 and 5/4 with the occasional 2 thrown in for good measure. Three and.

The onlookers are sort of just enjoying the spectacle. There's pudding in their blood, and bourbon in their pudding, and crocodiles in their bourbon. It's all a very pleasant experience until someone loses an eye. Aye.