folks' homes smell so much like my own. The hotcha girls at the palisades,. Dime store keets, pretty birds, pretty mouths. Mama's little truck stop rose, her dancy feet her happy laugh. We were
that jazz. Start the car. I know a whoopee spot. Where the gin is cold. But the piano's hot. It's just a noisy hall. Where there's a nightly brawl. And all. That. Jazz. Skidoo!. And all that Jazz. Hotcha
Can you feel it coming down?. Comes down harder, harder. Comes down faster, faster. You're burning Hotcha!. . You got my temperature rising. Like El Nin-Yo! x4. . Can you feel the fire in my
getting good in the back! Every town must have a place. Where phony hippies meet. Psychedelic dungeons. Popping up on every street. GO TO SAN FRANCISCO. Gotchya Hotcha! First I'll buy some beads. And