What holy cities are to nomadic tribes - a symbol of race and a bond of union - great books are to the wandering souls of men: they are the Meccas of the mind.
G.E. Woodberry
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Five Colours in Her Hair
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She's got a lip ring and five colours in her hair,
Not into fashion but I love the clothes she wears,
Her tattoo's always hidden by her underwear.
She don't care.
Everybody wants to know her name,
I threw a house party and she came
Everyone asked me
Who the hell is she?
That weirdo with five colours in her hair.
She's just a loner with a sexy attitude,
I'd like to phone her cos she puts me in the mood.
The rumors spreading round that she cooks in the nude.
But she don't care, she don't care.
Everybody wants to know her name,
How does she cope with her new found fame?
Everyone asks me,
Who the hell is she?
That weirdo with 5 colours in her hair.
She was all I thought about,
The girl I couldn't live without.
But then she went insane,
She couldn't take the fame
She said I was to blame
She'd had enough
And shaved five colours off
And now she's just a weirdo with no name.
Everybody wants to know her name.
How does she cope with her new found fame?
Everyone asks me,
Who the hell is she,
That weirdo with 5 colours in her hair.
Do do do do do do
Do do do do do do
Do do do do do do