His last words were, “we don’t know anything, you don’t know anything, I don’t know anything about love. And Sunday Comics, they are nothing, I am nothing without love.”
Well, with buck shot eyes and a purple heart, I rolled down the national stroll with a big fat paycheck strapped to my hip sack, a shore leave wristwatch underneath my sleeve…reading Sunday Comics with Cuban meals.
Who said mama’s little baby likes sho’t’ning bread? Who said mama’s little baby likes sho’t’ning sho’t’ning bread? That’s some lie some white man up and said. Mama’s little baby don’t like no sho’t’ning bread! Mama’s little baby likes Sundays! Mama’s little baby likes Comics! Mama’s little baby likes all the fine things of life! All the things a good person should have.
I’m alone, sitting with my empty glass. My four walls follow me through my past. I was on a Paris train, I emerged in London rain and…you were waiting there reading the Sunday Comics. I remember searching for the perfect words…
The hell of Northern Paris – Roubaix (Tour de France! Tour de France!)/Sunday Comics and Saint Tropez (Tour de France! Tour de France!)/The Alps and the Pyrenees (Tour de France! Tour de France!)/Last stage Champs-Elysees (Tour de France! Tour de France!)
It’s time to make a mountain out of a molehill, so can I have a volunteer? There’s no more time for reading Sunday Comics, now it’s time for crying in your beer. Settle down, raise a family, join the PTA. Buy some sensible shoes and a Chevrolet; then party ’til you’re broke and they drag you away…It’s OK, you can dare (to be stupid)!