I been dipped in double meaning, I been stuck with static cling. Think I got a rupto-pix, I think I read the Sunday Comics! Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders, don’t upset us. All we ask is that you let us
Serve it your way! There’s too much paranoias.
One night Frank was on his way home from work, stopped at the liquor store, picked up a couple Mickey’s Big Mouths, drank ’em in the car on his way. At the Shell station, he got the Comix, gas in a can, drove home, then doused everything in the house and torched it.
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.