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as i lay here with a chip on my shoulder, i am in a sour mood. i would cream someone if they were to bother me. meanwhile, green onions plays on the radio, though i would prefer booker playing the blues, if you dig the tenor of where i am at. as i sit here in a blue mitchell mood, i stevie wonder, where is my bread, my peace of silver? i am tired of this horace race. can someone grant me some peace before i fall to pieces and go crazy? i've gone out walking after midnight, but i was a patsy for the crooks, so now, i de-cline to take those walks. hence, i strike out more and more. nothing swings, from glenn miller and down by the riverside. i got a new dorsey, but it needs a lock. i was gonna ask for the whole whig party, but like a true democrat, i settled for a lock of hair. hair today, gone tomorrow, tom. don't cry uncle because we are living in an aunt heap, and while sam cooke sings cousin of mine, i contemplate death. but, it would be too final. so, i sit on the doc severinson of the e bay, wasting time. someone else just got a carson, but having wheels doesn't make you a mcmahon, and the show tonight does not seem james worthy of my attention. in fact, i am so poor that i can't even pay attention. you could cut the attention with a knife and make him fork over the dough, but it would all probably go to pot anyway. go ahead, pan these lines if you prefer, but i think it is starting to darwin cook, charles, so don't cry a river over me. no, smile chap, for the town of lynn awaits. lynn, lynn, city of sin, you never come out the way you went in. yet, we all must sin for our supper. do you notice how it's never supper anymore? too religious. how about "the last dinner?" supper...stupid word. religion gave us a lot, of which bullshit is one of the main things. i say this not to degrade, but merely, as an observer who remembers that the greatest killers throughout time, including pat boone, have believed. to be frank laden, we are sattled with blazing thoughts of fire, and i brooks great resentment over this. enough of this jazz! leave us a-sloane! let us watch tom and jerry, or jerk off, or sleep. at least let us create our own stories. the ones that are thousands of years old get a little tiresome. i want to burn rubber away from tradition, and finally have a good year, and yet, you likely tire from these puns, which speak to retread lines of yesteryear. so, you sit in traffic, but there is no free way. all is cost. all will costas, bob. there will be a lloyd price. they will take your personality and stagger you until you think you are lee morgan, but no one will be there to help you search for a new land. the great ones get shorter as you get older, and you are no longer green. wayne you were younger, things seemed otherwise, but now you realize that no one is wise, not even tim, who while he is white like me, is still just a man, like all the rest. ah, to rest, perchance to dream, there's the rub, and i wish you would get your hand off my penis. there are ty laws against that sort of thing, so unless you want a fantastic foursome, i suggest we intercept this communication before it gets out of hand. for while you may have the ball, two can play at that game, and while you pray, i may become the prey and joe hunt you while you relax by the riverside records and pay your bill russell's. my friend, you will not always be the center of attention. one of these days, you will wilt under the pressure and someone will curb your enthusiasm. so, shaq up with a lady love while you cannes, because life is no movie.

it's for reel, and the next shot might be of your face, shot by a bullet, real or reel, it's hard to tell the real from the false now. either way, a bit of you will die.

they may call it success, but you will know the truth.

and the madness will go by the name of normalcy, and only the fools will be sane. but, they will be medicated, hidden from view, tied down, handcuffed, beaten, killed.

and only the insane will live.