STEWART: Tom, it’s a delight to visit you in your garden. Let’s have a look at your—wait, what’s that sound?

WAITS: My old mutt Sullivan. Other week he drank some funny creek water downstream of the hydrofrack. Been breathin’ like a box bellows ever since. Don’t pay him no mind.

STEWART: Oh, the poor thing. Now, let’s have a look at your sunflowers. They’ve … not done well.

WAITS: Sunflowers don’t grow right in this sun. At least mine didn’t—came up and fell down, like a dray mule with rickets.

STEWART: And all your hydrangeas are dead.

WAITS: I’m the killer, Martha, but you’re the one who’s done time.

STEWART: Oh, but I put that time to such good use, Tom! Making comfy shawls and a gorgeous Nativity crèche with just the materials I had at hand! It’s a lot like the wonderful music you make with your junkyard instruments.

WAITS: Did your cell have one of those floor drains? Peeing against perforated metal is its own kinda music.

STEWART: [ignoring him]: Now, Tom, you need to put in some trellises here. Your sweet peas are getting away from you.

WAITS: Shoot, Martha, my sweet pea got away from me in ’68. At the bowling lanes on the borderline where Chula Vista becomes National City. [Mournfully] She was only 16 and smelled of damp crinoline and cheeseburger fumes.