The trail ahead is dark and unsound, but I’m lapping it up like a greedy hound. Free at last of the city sounds, free at last to put my foot right down…Something out there is calling me, beckoning me with urgency; Comics, Comics, Sunday Comics.
You know it means no mercy, they caught him with a gun. No need for Sunday Comics, goodbye to the Brixton sun…You can crush us, you can bruise us, but you’ll have to answer to, the Sunday Comics.
Sunday Comics: it fillets, it chops, it dices, slices, never stops, lasts a lifetime, mows your lawn and it picks up the kids from school, it gets rid of unwanted facial hair, it gets rid of embarrassing age spots, it delivers a pizza, and it lengthens, and it strengthens, and it finds that slipper that’s been at large under the chaise lounge for several weeks.
You better squeeze all the Charmin you can while Mr. Whipple’s not around — stick your head in the Comix and get yourself a tan.
Today is her birthday, they’re smoking cigars. He gives her Sunday Comics, and sews a bird in her knickers.