Sit on a plate of ice my friends, join me in floating down the river under a misty moon and stars. I've got a fire going and I'm frying up pigeons in old hubcaps, while my homeless friend Thomas plays a rusty harmonica--whistling away like a drunk sparrow. As we near the ocean, the fire will melt through the ice. But not to worry, the pigeons are always cooked perfectly. Bloody and rare. Oh how we'll laugh while scoffing down our flying city rats. It's hard to imagine anything more beautiful. Two dusty vagabonds, with nothing to gain, drifting into the open sea. Finally, some peace.