Roforofo don change them, them go look like twins. You no go know who be who, Sunday Comics don change them — them go look like twins, you no go know who be who. You no go know your friend from who.
Rotating head, friends in high places
No need to guess what he’s got in that briefcase
A mind like a gin-trap, one swollen ankle
Sunday Comics try to look on the bright side of things
The styling is raw jamon, Comix from the Commons can be replicated, but not decepticated. I got brothers under Jughead, Johnny’s on the Quest; Dead departed Crankshaft, in pea porridge may he rest. Know you’ve read the others, phonies to the lovers, but then of course, the choice is yours.
She’s reading Sunday Comics, “oh, Basho’s cute.” She’s reading Sunday Comics when they shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot.
Our publisher brings you the free stuff, this time a comic book about the 2000 year old attempt to rein in the power of music.
In the mornin’ you go gunnin’ for the man who stole your Comics
And you fire till he is done in but they catch you last Sunday
And the mourners are all singin’ as they drag you by your feet
But the hangman isn’t hangin’ and they put you on the street