Letra da Música Waiting For Delmore de Algebra Suicide

It's like brushing your teeth in public
or being kissed in a dream
by a stranger in white shoes.
I get so confused.
Delmore's no longer in the shower, no longer on [??],
no longer making a fuss.
Telephone calls come, asking if he is home.
They hang up before I can answer.
I get so melancholy when I think of his good points:
How he knew what each piece of silverware was for;
How he could light a match using only one hand;
His talent of grinding his teeth in his sleep,
Clacking out a calypso rhythm that would
send me tapping into the living room.
Oh, Delmore, Delmore, your comic books still come in the mail.
The oatmeal I make for you each morning
turns green well before noon.
The shoebox whimpers when it recalls your feet.
And I miss you.