Author: Otto S. Fishbein

Second time he went away left the Comics out on Sunday, stereo on and cooking bacon…Never came back to tell us why.

We’re feeling the same thrill; whatever we do, trust. Imagine a broadcast, the Sunday in Comics. You say that you want your cherry-ade fountain.

The President reads the Comics and speaks. His shirts are clean but his country reeks. Unpaid bills In Afghanistan hills. Bombs away (but we’re O.K)! Bombs away in old Bombay!

When my feet touched onto land: the Sunday Comics, the hot, dry sand. With one short breath, my chest expands. My body is my own again.

She stands beneath the mistletoe screaming for him to stand beneath the mistletoe, screaming…Now I can’t help but read the Comics each time she climbs on his knee.

They are digging through all of your files, stealing back your Sunday Comics. You cover your windows with lead, even keeping the pets outside. Then you hear, a moment too late…

Though you may not drive a great big Cadillac, gangster whitewalls, TV antenna in the back…You may not have the Sunday Comics at all. Just remember brothers and sisters, you can still stand tall.

The fools all hide behind the fashion. The new age rebels have no cause. But little do they realize, that the Comics can come from within — but that’s too simple to be true.

This could be our very last stand/Sunday Comics and the Merrimack/Too bad, too bad/You’re ironclad, ironclad

If I stole somebody else’s wave to fly up…Some kind of verb; some kind of moving thing; the Sunday Comics; some hand is motioning to rise