I used to have a friend who was a mad fan of Madonna, and she said that Like a Prayer was such a perfect song that she could not conceive of a world without it, even if Madonna hadn’t existed; someone would have had to sing it especially for her. My friend was exaggerating, and she had the music taste of most Scottish women I’ve known: Top 40 dance, the tackier the better, with a preference for older songs. But listening to Pink Floyd’s The Wall on headphones, walking through Ithaca covered in snow and under a grey sky, makes me realise that I have __always__ felt the same way about that album. It is not my favourite, but I cannot conceive a world without it.

I've got a little black book with my poems in.
Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in.
When I'm a good dog, they sometimes throw me a bone in.

I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on.
Got those swollen hand blues.
Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from.
I've got electric light.
And I've got second sight!
And amazing powers of observation.
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There'll be nobody home.

I've got the obligatory Hendrix perm.
And the inevitable pinhole burns
All down the front of my favourite satin shirt.
I've got nicotine stains on my fingers.
I've got a silver spoon on a chain.
I've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains.

I've got wild staring eyes.
And I've got a strong urge to fly.
But I got nowhere to fly to.
Ooooh, Babe
when I pick up the phone
There's still nobody home.