Neither worse nor wiser than Rod McKuen -- a fulsome orchestration of ""joyful adulteries"" and generally bovine horniness to 101-stringed schmaltz. Gilmour, who received his basic training in the backseats of hot rods in the '50's (""I did it first behind the Diner. . .""), is nevertheless unprepared when Miss green-eyes-and-strawberry-hair crashes his beachheads and bunkers. Though she fights his endless tongue, his mouth applauds her. He has the passion of ""a careless fly/ doomed to the ecstasy of death/ in the perfumed corridors/ of your sweet wet throat."" Bedtime lyrics for those kings who would command astride ""a pink and trembling throne.