back in stride again, trying to travel through the maze of beverly, ma.

i've gott soul, richard, and ever since i've been back in love again, i feel osborne again. i want to sing a love ballad. but alas, i have an elegy and can not stop sneezing. and then i think of our government, which said hi, coup in caracas, but hugo went his own way and overcame the imperial ambitions of the bush klan. it is getting harding to overthrow foreign leaders for the war machine, especially when they do not have a warren for their arrests. as an arthur, i had to get that off my chester. i need to speak my mind, for i have been a grover, i have walked alone, and i need to cher my thoughts with you on this sonny day. i make no bono's about it, but you moth remember this, cleveland is a fine city. give it a pekar if you are in the area, and enjoy the splendor this american city has to offer. from there, catch the shining starrs over manhattans, a view maid in heaven. if you see them, you will feel like an edwinner, and you will want to dance. people will stop and astaire, but that won't bother you, for there is no other place that you would rather act like a dapper dan in.
everything goes up except my salary (and my penis) so i end up eating celery, and getting threatening letters from salari. so larry, your hair looks really curly today. did you happen to catch "moe better blues" last night? i didn't, as i had a fever, so i listened to a peggy lee record and rested my eyes, which saw the gory of the coming of the moses virginia trial. as the old song goes, he was guilty, but i think he suffered from de jury discrimination. can a greek man get a fair trial in this country, even if his name is moses? this whole thing leaves me without pizza mind, and i can't move pasta it. guy told me to forget it, but i will not seles out. someone needs to remember the travesties of justice meted out against the little david's of the world by this behemoth of a system. for i have seen the graf's which show how the poor and non-white are tobacco railroaded, while whites rome free, jim. dick, take stockton in what i am ceying. don't ron away from the truth. gordy, howe many times can a mann turn his head from the byrds, pretending he can't sea? it sounds fishy to me that he can continue to do this. it is as clear as day. the bombs are falling, and if i were an mc, i would hammer out this message through the music of dylan. the people need to seeger what i am talking about. i would hit them over the head with protest music that would have the strength of a billie club, and even the strange fruits in the audience would know what i am talking about. don't ask me to explain where i am going with this, for i am a lover, man, and i don't have the time for you hatin on me. if you had them there eyes, you could see what i'm sayin. i don't mean to be stern, but honeysuckle rose thinks it is off the waller that i am still chewing the fats with you. she tells me i should give up, but i will continue to try to get you to walk the straight and navarro path. one day, she will trumpet my viewpoint.
my golson is for people to see things my way. to be frank, what else can i aim for, for i am on the crest of something important, and i only need to paste my thoughts together to come up with the solution. yes, i will sink my teeth into the facts, and come up with the bitter truths that will expose this rotten, smelly edifice for the disaster it is. the tooth hurts, but i need to pull this, for guess who else will. these eyes have seen the nasty underbelly of the system, and american woman, you are crazy if you think i am not going to share what i am on to. otherwise, i will feel that i am drowning on dry land, and i will never feel like a king that way. yes, it is a bland feeling to withould vital truths, one that makes me feel like a dick and has me singing the blues before long. at that point, only listening to ready for freddie seems to help, but that is only an escape, i can't keep flying away from my troubles like a donald byrd. rather, i need to plant a seed and act as the metaphorical art farmer i have become, and to continue to pepper my remarks with puns of w. e.b dubios merit. perhaps then i will carver a niche for myself that even george washington would be proud of. yes, i am the x factor, and i declare that my future is rosa. i am gonna parks myself right here, for we need optimism now more than evers. i am gonna rolle back my sleeves and get to work. we are amos there, and if we keep plugging away, we will make it. emma gonna strike goldman, if i just keep on doing what is wright, antoine. good deeds will nets all of us progress. i am not kidding, we can not pass on this opportunity to assist in the progress of our world.
but, they still have the bombs and the oil and the courts and the jails and the armies on their side, don't they? well, i have the recycling bins and i turn the light off when i leave the room and i freeze my balls off in the winter because i am in sympathy with the iraqi resistance and i am a cheap bastard, and i walk and take the bus because if you drive you are a defacto serial killer and and and and....
well, i haven't done much in the way of stoping the war or ending poverty and children are still dying from malaria and men still think if they have sex with young girls they won't get aids and global warming is still assaulting us all.
but they can't take my puns from me, can they? i've got my blog, and if i want to root for the nets in boston than by golly i can because this is america and we are all free to pursue meaningless habits and interests in this great land. we are free. this is america.
this is america, where i am free to drown in my own tears.
by george, come home america.