dave, sing your zirin song

jack and jill scott went up a lauryn hill, and then wrote the port heron statement. the signing of this revolutionary statement was televised live but my dead hands had trouble changing the station. so i danced the charlton with michael moore until i got sicko to my stomach. moses i shouln't have done it, but he should just leave me malone. i karled him up and told him that, but he said don't give me that jazz. instead, face the music, and if you can't afford to live in this country, get a house somewhere else, miles away. this may be a blue note, but i'm not in this for the prestige, for i would rather chill down by the riverside and keepnews to myself. ahmet a nice man by the bay, but he didn't otis me. if i could get a redding on his feelings, it would do wonders, woman, for my soul. but, it seems i will have to foot the bill of frustration, as d feet nears, and i get socked by the punch that is life. choose life, your mother did. hitler's mother chose life too, but she is usually not a poster child for the anti-abortion crowd. i am a bore, so shun me. if i marry, my mother in law will say i am not losing a daughter, im gaining a shun. i am so poor, i can't even pay a ten, shun.
g-d, what am i doing? what kind of a weigh is this to pound your eyes, deer blog reader? do you prey for me to quit this wicked game, dorothy, and to kansas every new kid on the block to vote for kucinich? i tell them to eat their kucinich so they can grow strong every weak, but they would rather watch dorris day movies, or sit on a rock by the hudson river as they think of helen way of troy. yes, i suppose they way their options, for life is helen earth. sometimes, astaire at them gingerly, and my rodgers grows hard, and i feel that i am in havens like richard, and my heart beats so that i can hardly speak low when i speak to courtney love. anyhere i hang my hate is home, though hate is not a family value. we are family, i've got all my sisters and me. once, i had assist, but i passed on the operation. instead, i went to a holistic healer who told me the concept of illness is all in my head, which i should go out of a little even if it hurts so bad. that night, i cried tears on my pillow and begged my doctor to take me back, but alas, i was on the outside looking in, as i could not get another appointment for 3 weeks because sarah was ahead of me, and though i tried to be stern and though i insisted on phillying in the nurse with my trouble, no one would sea me. i cried a river over this to lee, who was tender and pressleyed me to snap out of it. quitters never ed wynn and ed wynners never quit, he told me. oz see what you mean, but i'm a jew, d, i replied, and i ed wood dan rather nick my knee running through a garland of red roses than look like a stern joe, smoking a philly on the block with some new kid named jason. for, you see, i don't want to be trapped in a box, cause that way you can end up in an ali, tossed aside like a piece of clay, cause this is a gene old world to try to live in by yourself, and i take my hattie off to anyone who can wind this wicked race. man, i've got to get holmes and fly away like a bird to my woman who i love so dear, but it seems their is no magic in my dick johnson, so i turn turn turn like a byrd to a soporno, and end up caught between a rock and a hard place.
when will the readers mob my blog? i would kill for a few comments, and i will keep shooting posts until i get them. maybe if i die the color of my screen, people will raven about it and the sonny will shine on me once again, for i am a white on white man, polka man. i played a game of polka last night and had a pint of gin with romney. if i get my mitts on him again, i'll take his money, for the mormon i play him, the better i will do. but it may not be in the cards, for he seemed to have quite a chip on his shoulder when i told him i wouldn't do a load of laundry for him. i hope we can wipe the slate clean and make a brake from playing cards and listening to vikki talk about her carr, for romney, me and gerald can't a ford these nights on the town. there is too much on my plate, what with the dish network, listening to the platters, sam cooke, and hanging out with bob, a chef who gives me pizza mind and connects me with my pasta. that last sentence was a lie. food me once, shame on me, food me twice, shame on you. you've got that magic touch, johnson, and i'm tellin you the truth, williams. i wouldn't lie to you for i am not a great pretender, and smoke gets in my eyes everytime i think of you. maybe i will sing a different tune later, so tune in for what this looney tune has to say. don't duck out on me. keep reading. don't become a pig and work for the state, don't cop a plea, don't steal a little love, and don't rob, ok williams? hey, this is no laughing matter, so stand up and speak truth to tyrone power. don't bogart, rather, keep it reel. im not ryan robert, hang in there, for where their is an esther williams their is a way. ceasar built a sidy on a hill, but alas, it is time for me to climb down from my pedestal and go back to "work"
and death returns.
onward to 2:35