Tonight they’ll sing the Cantiphoebo, and throw dried leaves on the electric fire, and breathe deeply of the smoke; they’ll crack jars and smear their faces with the sour stickiness, and their voices will rise:
Phoebo, whose arms could touch all moons!
Phoebo, who taught us of viscous styling products!
Phoebo, who always received the finest jars of jam!
And deserved them!
At least Phoebo said so!
Phoebo, with feet like horn and hands like gophers!
Phoebo, who fuck fucking smoke hold on. Whoo. Okay, let’s go back
Phoebo, who glowed unmatched with the light of his shellackéd hair!
Phoebo!
Phoebo!