And she was lying in the grass. And she could hear the highway breathing. And she would read the Sunday Comics; she’s making sure she is not dreaming.
The bats have left the bell tower, the Comics have been read.
Spend Sundays in the black box:
Bela Lugosi’s dead.
No one in the world ever gets what they want, and that is beautiful; everybody dies reading Sunday Comics, and that is beautiful. They want what they’re not and I wish they would stop saying, “Deputy Dawg dog a ding ding debadeba.”
I don’t know where he lives; or if he knows to sail; or if little schemes like this one ever cross his trail. I don’t believe he’s reading Sunday Comics, you know…So I shudder in my lampshade.
Train my brain to work the way you want me to. Don’t question authority, see, don’t read Sunday Comics that disagree with you. You are strapped with a double standard clamp, in a battle you won’t win; and when it’s over, we’re gonna dance your memory away