Wash: Well, I wash my hands of it. It's a hopeless case. I'll read a nice poem at the funeral. Something with imagery. Zoe: You could lock the door and keep the power-hungry maniac at bay. Wash: Oh, no, I'm starting to like this poetry idea now. Here lies my beloved Zoe, my autumn flower, somewhat less attractive now she's all corpsified and gross...
'Shindig'
Buffista Music 1: The Music (And Who Can Blame It) Swells
There's a lady plays her fav'rite records On the jukebox ev'ry day. All day long she plays the same old songs, And she believes the things that they say.
She sings along with all the saddest songs, And she believes the stories are real. She let's the music dictate the way that she feels.