It’s All In The Eyes – What NOT To Do With A Character’s Eyes If You Don’t Want Your Readers To Piss Themselves Laughing

 

As a reader, I’m going to give you some examples of what NOT to do with your character’s eyes because I’M SICK OF SEEING THIS SORT OF SHITE – if I’m reading a book, or a short story, or a fictional blog post, and you’ve drawn me into the story and I like your characters and I’m reading on because I want to know what happens next, I DON’T WANT TO END UP LAUGHING AT YOU BECAUSE YOU DID SOMETHING STUPID WITH YOUR CHARACTER’S EYES. And that’s what I DO, I laugh at you – then I get MAD and I throw your book/story at the bin after I’ve jumped on it a few times, or I shut down the window that has your blog in it WITH A VERY HARD CLICK OF THE BUTTON. And why do I do that?  BECAUSE YOU’VE TURNED YOUR STORY INTO BOLLOCKS WITH YOUR BAD WRITING. And then I go away and I NEVER read anything of yours EVER, EVER AGAIN.

 

So what do I mean by “what NOT to do with your character’s eyes”?

THIS is what I mean –

“… she rolled her eyes at him.” — We all know this one, it’s a standing joke. You should NEVER roll your character’s eyes because the immediate response of the reader is to laugh and think ‘HE ROLLED THEM BACK.’  — AND THE READER STOPS READING BECAUSE THEY THINK THE REST OF YOUR STORY WILL BE A LOAD OF WANK EVEN IF THEY’VE ENJOYED IT UP TO THAT POINT.

 

More examples (with the additional info of what the reader thinks) –

 

“She fell into his deep blue eyes” — never to be seen again, even after the MISSING posters went up around town and the police got 3 phone calls on the first day.

“Her eyes fell to the mess on the floor” — never to be seen again because without her eyes she couldn’t see to clean up.  

“Her eyes danced around the room” — The Waltz? The Lambada? The Funky Chicken?

“His eyes burned into her” — FIRE! FIRE! HELP!

“Her eyes widened” — Get yourself to Casualty, pet, that sounds serious.

“She ran her eyes across his chest” — Brrmm, brrmm.

“Her eyes were deep pools of fresh, clear water” — Do you need a fishing licence? I’ve heard tales of a MASSIVE KILLER PIKE in there.

“Her eyes pierced into him” — her miraculous stabby eyes.

“Her eyes darted round the room.” — Come here, you little fuckers!!

“He pinned her to the bed with his eyes” — He’d have been better off using a Black & Decker Nail Gun, £39.99 at B&Q

“Her eyes landed on his face” — Aaarrggh, get them off, get them off!!!

“He felt her eyes on his back” — I told you, get them off me! Stop it, you sick bitch!!

“She cast her eyes to the floor” — Ooops, you’ve lost them now – they’ve rolled under the fridge. 

 

And there are LOADS more but I can’t be bothered thinking of them right now. 

 

 

Oh, and another couple of things that make me SEETHE AND WANT TO BATTER YOU TO DEATH WITH YOUR BOOK even though they have nothing to do with eyes –

 

“She subsided onto the floor/chair/bed” – It might be TECHNICALLY CORRECT regarding definition of the word ‘subside’ but it sounds FUCKING STUPID. Don’t do it.

 

AND

 

“He fell onto the plate of chicken and ate it all within seconds.” — written when a character is overly hungry and someone presents him with a plate of chicken. NO HE DIDN’T FALL ONTO THE PLATE OF CHICKEN or the second part of the sentence would read something like “…and ended up with four stitches on his chin and a wing jammed up his left nostril.”

 

 

Eliminate all the SHITE from your work. It’s not creative, it’s not a clever use of language, it’s SHITE. Plain and simple SHITE.

STOP IT.

 

 

Dotty’s New Novel – Part 2 – This Is Not A Love Story

 

Before I get started, here’s the link to the first post I did about my novel in case you’ve forgotten I was writing one or you’re a recent follower who hasn’t seen the post.

 

DOTTY’S FIRST NOVEL – BUY IT, BUY IT, BUY IT EVERYBODY 

 

It’s been a while since I last posted about my novel and progress has been GOOD. I’ve decided (a decision!!) that my novel will NOT be a love story (you might have already spotted that bit in the title), it’s going to be a HATE story because there are far too many love stories in the world and NOT NEARLY ENOUGH hate stories – NONE that I can think of, but I might be wrong. And why is that, you might ask?

It’s because of the RAMPANT and SICKENING hatred people have for hate. THE HATRED OF HATE is WRONG. Hating hate is HATEFUL and DETESTABLE and it needs to STOP. Hate should be allowed the same rights as any other emotion. Aren’t we supposed to be striving for a world of EQUALITY and TOLERANCE? A world in which all are fairly treated and everyone is given the same respect and dues as everyone else? But no it isn’t like that, is it? The world is full of BIGOTRY and DISCRIMINATION. Those who hate hate are nothing but hatists, which, by the way, is pronounced hate-ist not hat-ist so really it should be spelt hateist but then people would pronounce it like atheist, hate-eist and there’s no such word. Oh, wait, hang on a minute — on second thoughts YES IT CAN BE HATEIST because AGEIST has kept the E and no one pronounces it ag-eist (rhyming with raggiest), do they?

So don’t be a hateful hateist full of hatred for HATE. It’s not nice. GIVE HATE A CHANCE.

 

 

So now you know the main theme for my novel (hate). And you also know, from what I’ve just said, that my novel will incorporate many elements of my campaign for equality for hate, that within the complex and refined layers and depths of my novel the crusade for fairness will always prevail, transmitting its honour and rightness directly to the hearts of my readers via subliminal messages intertwined throughout my carefully chosen words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters.

 

 

Which leads me to the reason for this post. I want to give you the privilege of being the first people to see MY SECOND WORD OF MY FIRST NOVEL. I’ll also give you a demonstration of how my subliminal messages work.

 

My first word is –

The

my second word is —

threat 

 

Can you see what I’ve done? Can you?

my first word is THE

my second word is THREAT

my second word includes ALL THE LETTERS THAT MAKE UP MY FIRST WORD with the remaining letters spelling RAT and what is THE RAT if it isn’t a THREAT?

AND

THE RAT is an ANAGRAM of THREAT.

Also, I’ve very cleverly used the word THREAT because it includes my theme word HATE and the remaining letters when you take out the word HATE are the letters T and R which, when put together and repeated fast enough, sound like the word TEAR and what happens when you see a RAT that you HATE and it’s a THREAT? You cry a little TEAR, don’t you? And, if you haven’t already noticed, the word TEAR is also included within the word THREAT. So is the word EAT (what the RAT will do to you) and the word ATE (what the RAT did to someone else).

AND – the word HEART is within the word THREAT.

ART is there too.

So is HEAT.

 

 

Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? I doubt whether Kafka or Stendhal or Hemingway could have come up with such LITERARY EXCELLENCE in such a short space of time. In fact, I’m doing so well with this, my first novel, I’m writing so speedily and with such depth, that I’m thinking of making a WHOLE NEW BLOG for my novel in order to show all you wannabes out there HOW IT’S DONE.

 

Thank you and goodnight.

 

 

 

 

N.B. — It’s not night, it’s morning. But night sounds better.

 

I’m Going On My Summer Holiday With Escher And Engleby

 

I’m taking a break for a while – I’m going on holiday to my spare bedroom. On the wall facing the bed I’ve put up a massive poster advertising the Escher exhibition that took place at one of our local big houses a few years ago. I nicked the poster and kept it rolled up until I needed it – which is NOW. It’s one of his stairs pictures, Relativity. It’s fucking HUGE, there almost isn’t enough wall for it to go on. I could look at it for hours – and I will be looking at it for hours because that’s what you do on holiday, isn’t it -except everyone else looks at the sea and I’ll be looking at Escher’s stairs where my bedroom wall used to be.

This is the picture. You can’t get the full impact of it unless you can look at one as big as the one I’ll be looking at.

I’m taking Engleby with me – Sebastian Faulks is sick of him, he said he’s too mental and whiney for his own good. I think Sebastian’s trying to play Cupid, but Engleby isn’t my type. Unless he brings me absinthe and laudanum cocktails with little multi-coloured umbrellas and a bit of fruit in them, if he does that without drinking them en route to ME I might have a rethink about his suitability as one of my suitors.

See that little cafe on the right of the picture? It said in the brochure it has internet access so if I get the chance I’ll come online to read some blogs, but I think my holiday will be so action-packed I won’t have time to write. But you never know.

Adieu, auf wiedersehen, au revoir, bon voyage, toodle pip, tatty-bye.

 

Dotty Days

 

SATURDAY

Sat on my saturnine arse reading The Rings Of Saturn.

Sat-nav — why the fuck have I got one? O, TomTom, Lord of the Wrong Turn, guide me out of this fucking house.

 

SUNDAY

Sun? There is no sun. It’s trapped behind the big, brown melancholy clouds. O, TomTom, Lord of the Turn Right In 300 Yards, guide the sun from behind the big, brown melancholy clouds.

 

MONDAY

Moon day.

Moan day.

I Don’t Like Mondays. BOOM. Shoot the moon. Fuck off, TomTom, you’re doing my skull in.

 

TUESDAY

Chew chew chew a Cumberland sausage in a sugary Mars Bar sandwich.

Choo-choo! Do trains have sat-navs? O, TomTom, Lord of the Straight Ahead, guide the trains along their tracks, up the coast roads and back – please don’t make them fall off again.

 

WEDNESDAY

Woe day? Wedding day? No, I got married on a Friday. I got married at Halloween and I married in silken black (this is a TRUE FACT), but I couldn’t help looking back. Ring o’ ring 0′ rosies, a pocket full of posies. O, TomTom, Lord of At The Roundabout Take The First Exit, guide dead ex-Simon to a nice place of cleanliness and peace and an abundance of stamps for his collection.

 

THURSDAY

I LOVE THOR, HEAR ME ROOOOOAAAAAARRRRR. (Months ago I roared in a post. It made me feel better at the time so now I have a little roar every Thursday morning before I make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast). O, TomTom, Lord of Leave The Motorway, guide the big Cumberland sausage lorries safely to my Tesco.

 

FRIDAY

Friday is now the only day I fry (burn) my Cumberland sausages.

Empty-headed no brain, fried brain, sizzle-pop. Skullduggery?

Freya, Freya, lend me your cloak so I can fly above the bald sea to see what I can see. O, TomTom, Lord of You Have Reached Your Destination, guide us not into temptation, or negation, or consternation. Forever and ever, amen.

*

Albrecht Dürer, self-portrait, 1500

look at the eyes

*

*

 

Dotty’s First Novel – Buy It – Buy It – Buy It Everybody!

 

Not yet though. I haven’t finished writing it but when I do, and when it’s been published by Penguin or Random House or whoever bids the highest amount, you’ll be able to buy it and tell all your friends and family and followers to buy it too.

Here’s an exclusive preview of what I’ve written so far —

 

The

 

It’s BRILLIANT, isn’t it? The Man Booker Prize will be MINE – eat your heart out, hoity-toity literary fuckers, here comes DOTTY HEADBANGER to blow you out of the wordy-water with the best novel ever written in the history of novel-writing.

It’s about THE… something. Or someone. A woman or a man. Or it could be a child – yes, a child would work, people like children. Something bad happens to the child, then something worse happens, then something miraculous happens which brings about a change for the better, then the lesson is learnt and the child lives happily ever after.

Shite, I’ve just told you the ending – I can’t do the child now, I’ve spoilt it by blabbling.

THE man…? THE woman…? THE dog…? THE antelope…? THE house…?

Oh yes, I need to put in a PLOT WITH SOME ACTION IN IT, don’t I? And some CHARACTERISATION. And DIALOGUE (that’s easy, it’s just ‘he said, she said’ – note to self – don’t use anything but ‘said’), and a few nicely layered, grand THEMES – life, death, love, hate, etc etc. A VOICE and some LANGUAGE have to go in too, some ORIGINALITY, some PACE, RHYTHM and FLOW. And an UNFORGETTABLE FUCKING WHAMMY OF AN ENDING.

Hey, it’s like a big pot of soup, isn’t it? In go the carrots, onions, leeks, lentils, flavouring and all the rest of the shite you throw in your soup.

Okay, what else? SUSPENSE – I’ve already got that, you want to know what happens next, don’t you? Because do you see what I did there with my OPENING WORD, the one I carefully and painstakingly selected after weeks of thought? I chose this particular OPENING WORD because it immediately pulls you, the Reader, into the fictive dream I’ve created for you, it transports you to THE WORLD INSIDE MY NOVEL. There’s no AUTHOR INTRUSION, no FLOWERY PROSE, there’s just PURE DRAMATIC FICTION right from the start. BOSH.

 

The

 

I’m working on my SECOND WORD right now but I don’t know whether or not I’ll post it here in case some fucker plagiarises me. You can’t be too careful, authors are thieves and liars by nature (not me!), and I wouldn’t trust an author as far as I could throw it. Hmmm. What to do? I don’t know, I’ll decide when I’ve written my SECOND WORD and let you know, but be prepared, you’ll probably have to wait until the book is launched to read it WHEN YOU HAVE BOUGHT A COPY (hardback).

 

Little Emily Has Almost Stopped Being A Morky Bitch!!

 

Branwell sorted it all out for me, he told her she’d better get down here to see me or he’ll use the pages of her novel to make his roll-ups with. He’s been trying to get her to come here for days, he said he’s sick of her slouching round the house spouting moody poems and shite, even Charlotte became fed up of her miserable face and that’s saying something because Charlotte’s face is EVEN MORE MISERABLE than little Emily’s so she’s got no room to talk.

So little Emily has been and gone this afternoon and she’s coming back again tomorrow. I told her about my migraine and how nice Branwell had been about giving me more laudanum to replace the extra I needed to take that day and all she said was she doesn’t like The Fucking Migraine Poem, it doesn’t scan properly, it has too many verses and I should be highly ashamed of it. Well, yes, I am now.

She wanted all the gossip. She asked if I’d had any comeback from dibble after I dosed Sergeant Sherlock’s Cumberland sausages with laudanum that day, but no I haven’t, I haven’t heard dicky-boo from them and that’s fine by me.

We’re not quite as easy with each other as we were but I suppose it’ll take time for her to come out of her strop completely, she doesn’t half know how to hold a grudge. As a gesture of friendship I said she can have a whole blog post of her own to do what she likes with – and she cheered up then, of course she did, she’s been dying to have a blog post – I asked why she doesn’t just do her own blog and she looked at me like I was stupid and asked ‘In which century was the internet invented, Dotty?’ Oh, yeah.

But don’t expect her blog post any time soon, she always makes a right meal of her writing – she has to have everything perfect and JUST SO, she’d edit edit edit until the cows came home if Charlotte let her. Write it straight into the blog post box thingy like I do, I said and she shuddered and called me a slap-dash heathen and I called her a fucking luddite and by the time she left we were almost back to normal. 

I’m off to make some more Cumberland sausages for tomorrow – she puts away a fair amount of scran for someone so little, I don’t know where it all goes.

 

Dotty Book Review – Villette

 

Little Emily has asked me to review one of her sister Charlotte’s books. She begged me to do a hatchet job to get back at Charlotte for butchering some of little Emily’s poems after little Emily died. Yes, little Emily IS dead. Is that a problem for you? Are you a BIGOT who discriminates against dead people in blogs? You’d better not be.

I was going to opt for The Professor because it’s the thinnest of Charlotte’s books, not so many pages of DRONE to get through (I dismissed Jane Eyre because everyone knows Jane Eyre). Instead I chose to review Villette because of course it’s the one I’d choose, me being a she-hermit and knowing a bit about isolation and depression and all the shite that goes with them.

 

DEAD. DEAD. THEY ARE ALL DEAD.

This should have been the title of the book because although the mourning and despairing Charlotte does manage to hide herself adequately behind her main character, Lucy Snowe, she is still very apparent if you look for her – a half-solid shadow walking behind Lucy who every now and again peeps over Lucy’s shoulder and says BOO to the reader. Little Emily tells me that’s what Charlotte is like, a bit nosey, a bit controlling (little Emily is still SO fucked off about her poems) a bit attention seeking.

But Charlotte’s presence in the book doesn’t necessarily distract the reader, whereas the presence of SISTER AGONY AUNTIE DOTTY does – she crept into the book with the intention of SAVING Lucy but she was spotted before she could guide her to a happy ending; Charlotte punched her in the eye and wrote her out and tried to pretend Sister Agony Auntie Dotty was a man in disguise – not a good move, Charlotte, you could have come up with a more plausible lie as a cover-up.

How to describe Lucy? Ugly, mad, loser. Yep, that about covers it. And spinster, which IS a harsh and lonely word but it correctly describes her harsh and lonely life. Some people are frightened of the book because of the madness it contains – Lucy IS mad, nails through brains type of mad (HELLO!) which is why I like her, even though she doesn’t actually DO any trepanning in the book, probably because people would react in the same way as my sister Lottie reacted when she sneaked into my house that night. But nailing through to your brain isn’t good, it’s nothing but amateur over-enthusiastic trepanning –  LEARN TO DO IT PROPERLY, LUCY, OR YOU WILL GET AN INFECTION.

Lucy’s enemy is Reason, (which I understand all too well). She embodies the many conflicting thematic polarities that run through the book – on the outside she’s a bit of a cold fish, not very likeable, but her inner self is passionate and fiery. Fire and ice, life and death, imagination and reality, madness and sanity, fairytale and realism – Charlotte threw them all in, including a lot of red and white (Sister Agony Auntie Dotty’s BIG RED CROSS is left in even though Sister Agony Auntie Dotty got booted). There’s lots of imagery, lots of metaphors, lots of angst, lots of madness, lots of words and a few of Charlotte’s friends from Angria get a look in too (including the changeling with pygmy hands, Paulina, who steals Dr John, the man Lucy fancies JUST when Lucy gets him out on a date).

Poor Lucy never gets the man. She falls in love with M. Paul but everyone else conspires (didn’t I say it – they ARE out to get you) to keep them apart and he goes off to the West Indies. Lucy spends “three happy years” waiting for him while he sorts out a future for them both but when he’s on his way back to get her his ship sinks during a terrible storm and he dies. There are some debates about this ending because Charlotte purposely wasn’t very clear about it, maybe she couldn’t think of a proper ending so she left it open for the reader to decide, which is the lazy way out – (finish your fucking book, Charlotte, you spent a long time writing it) – but for me, he’s dead.

 

 

ADDENDUM — A newly discovered revelation – this book is about Charlotte and little Emily’s sister, Anne. I’m surprised no one else has made this discovery because it’s not hidden very well. The name LUCY SNOWE is the key. Here’s why —

LUCY is the word LUNACY with the N and the A taken out. What does N/A stand for? NOT APPLICABLE – which means the character of Lucy is not applicable to the author, Charlotte.

So who is it applicable to? Take those two letters, N and A, and put them with Lucy’s surname, SNOWE, make an anagram of them and stick LUCY on the end of it and you get ANNE WOS LUCY.

FUCKING OBVIOUS.

 

 

Little Emily – A Withering Shite (And Then Not)

 

 

Very hurtful remarks have been made to me by someone who shall remain nameless but she’s little, she wears long dresses and tiny boots, and her brother very kindly sorts out my Laudanum requirements.

I don’t want to tell you what she called me. It’s humiliating. I’ve always said she has a way with words but to use them in such a snidey, bitchy manner towards ME  –  HER SO-CALLED BEST FRIEND –  is like using a JCB to dig up a dandelion – FUCKING UNNECESSARY.

And I couldn’t fight back. I was glued to the bed by a big beige glob of apathy, not listening to her at first, not caring what she said.

UNTIL she called me a —

 

 

 

 

 

No.

I can’t say it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, go on then, I’ll tell you. I’ve humiliated myself enough in this blog as it is, once more won’t make any difference.

 

 

 

She called me a SUFFERING CLUCK.

And then she shouted at me —

“You there, woman in the bed. You perceive me to be limp and timid, of no use to you but as a passive listener and maker of hot drinks. You have no concept of what I can offer you as a token of our friendship. Think of it, woman, think of what I DO – I create monsters, I bring forth maniacs, I write of pitiful atrocities, gargantuan brutalities and the cruelty and harshness of human fate. I am NOT a nodding drip. I DESTROY BOOKS IN MY BOOK.”

Her eyes looked like big black shiny marbles.

‘Just fuck off, little Emily. Go away.’

No. This acedia you meekly surrender to will wreck your soul if I allow it further hold on you. Up you get. Up, I say.”

And she PUNCHED ME IN THE BACK.

And it fucking well hurt, right between my shoulder blades, she’s got a right wallop on her. I jumped out of the bed before she could do it again. ‘WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR, YOU SKANKY BITCH?’ I screamed.

She smiled at me and took something out of the pocket of her dress. “I’ve brought a gift. They’re from the sock drawer at home.”

‘How did you get them?’

I mingled nonchalantly with a group of braying Oxford students; I slipped the socks inside my pocket when the Curator turned her back. They are mine, I have a right to take my own clothes. But they’re yours now. Put them on.”

So I did. They’re nice. I’ll have to find something to hold them up though – they’re long, they go up past my knees and when I wear them for more than two seconds they fall down and I’m more like Nora Batty than Victorian Sock Lady. We went downstairs and little Emily made me a cup of coffee and gave me another present, a nice big vial of laudanum that Branwell sent for me. I love little Emily. Look how she’s revived me – she’s even got me using semi-colons.

 

I’m going to make her a Cumberland sausage sandwich for her supper. She deserves one.

 

 

 

 

Dotty Book Review – Wuthering Heights

 

My new best friend, little Emily, is the credited author of this book with a teensy bit of help from yours truly – Cathy Earnshaw has ginger hair and this was my doing because little Emily couldn’t make up her mind what colour hair Cathy should have so I advised her – ginger. Cathy runs around the moors a lot. I think she has a mental illness that makes her think she’s a ginger sheep she gallops about up there so much. I asked Branwell if he can sort her out with a little tot of laudanum to calm her down (his prices are very reasonable).

It’s Heathcliff I feel sorry for. Have you seen the state of his little house? It’s nothing but RUINS, a few tumbledown stones. I worry about where he sleeps in winter. In summer he’s fine, he sits drinking in the Black Bull all night with nice American tourists who’ve travelled a long way to visit him and when they find out he has nowhere to stay they very kindly stump up the cash for his Bed & Breakfast in the pub. It’s when the nice Americans go away that concerns me, what does he do then? Little Emily won’t have him in the house he’s caused so much trouble. He’s a moody sod at the best of times, so how anyone would put up with him lodging in their house I don’t know. I wouldn’t have him to stay with me, I couldn’t anyway because I HAVE PEOPLE PHOBIA and a moody man in the house would scare me. Having JUDAS to stay was bad enough and he’s my ex-brother, imagine what it would do to me having a relative stranger around all the time, especially one as morose as Heathcliff. No, he can’t come here.

Cathy should be the one to take him in but she won’t. She’s a bit of a bimbo, and she’s a bit slutty too. And she can’t sing. When she had black bushy hair (before little Emily saught my advice) she changed her name to Kate and she used to stand outside Heathcliff’s window singing a synopsis of the book. I’ll leave you to listen to her singing it, I don’t want to hear her again, I’ve got tinnitus and she’d do my head in. This is what she sings —

 

Out on the wiley, windy moors

we’d roll and fall in green.

You had a temper — like my jealousy,

too hot, too greedy.

How could you leave me

when I needed to — possess you?

I hated you, I loved you too.

Bad dreams in the night

told me I was going to lose the fight,

leave behind my Wuuuthering, Wuuuthering,

Wuuuthering-a Heights

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Oooh it gets dark, it gets lonely

on the other side from you.

I pine a lot. I find the lot

falls through without you.

I’m coming back love,

Cruel Heathcliff, my one dream,

my only Master.

Too long I roam in the night.

I’m coming back to his side to put it right.

I’m coming home to Wuuuthering, Wuuuthering,

Wuuuthering-a Heights

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Ooh, let me have it,

let me grab your soul away.

Ooh, let me have it,

let me grab your soul away.

You know it’s me — Cathy.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so cold.

by Kate Bush (Cathy’s stage name)

 

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