Author: Otto S. Fishbein

In a Sunday drizzle on Cuban heels, I rowed down the gutter to the blood bank and I’d left all my Comics on the Ticonderoga and was in a bad need of a shave.

The sun kisses the morning dew, just the way that I’m kissing you. The Sunday Comics are sweet harmony, teaching the free world how to be free.

I like to hide behind my glasses when I feel uptight. I like to hide behind my glasses when I’m reading the Sunday Comics — so I can give you all dirty looks and you won’t know what I’m thinking.

But I have heard of ways where people topple all injustice…and all bigotry is like a disease drowned in the sea, and all can read the Sunday Comics

Our love is the size of these Comics on Sunday; our love is the size of this hospital room, you’re my hospital groom. The ring on my finger so tight it turns blue — a constant reminder I’ll die in this room, if you die in this room.

When the ringmaster calls our names, we’ll be the first ones to go to sleep. Stealing all our dreams. Dreams for sale. They sell ’em back to you. On with the Comics, start the parade!

The sun is up and there’s no one about, I get the paper and the Comics are out…I keep wondering, “Where did you get that blank (blank) expression on your face?”

I stock the shelves, I work the rows; the product’s all light up. If I could flip the switch, Sunday Comics, I could move us to the top. The numbers roll, it’s time to go, but never fast enough.

I saw my therapist; she thinks you are my magic sin. Oh, maybe she’s right! Well I’ll just read the Sunday Comics and purify again…Ooh, angels are fun, they’re so fun!