”Howdy do. This is Peter McCallister, the father. I’d like a hotel room please, with an extra large bed, a TV, and one of those little refrigerators you have to open with a key. Credit card? You got it.”
That night, drunker than usual, he broke into sudden song: He rode through the streets of the city, down from his hill on high, O’er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles, he rode to a woman’s sigh. For she was his secret treasure, she was his shame and his bliss. And a chain and a keep are nothing, compared to a woman’s kiss.