it’s good to be here gettin’ fly with the raps we love it where we from but we kick it where we at in amongst the pebbles we rocks on your blocks soakin’ in the ghetto for kids that have not

Animals in the midnight zone; when you own the world, you’re always home. “Get your hands dirty,” “roll up them sleeves;” brainwashed or true believers? Buy flash cars, diamond rings and expensive holes to bury things!

Yes, but I, I’m a boy…A small story which always happens–I said “ouch! This really hurts!” This could well be, but this has been practiced for millions of years. Therefore we are–Yes, but, you’re a girl…I lie in my bed, totally still; my eyes wide…

I want summer’s sad songs behind me. I want a laugh a minute, without fail; want to be Paul Le Mat in 1980. Looking to forget tomorrow, looking everyday.

You come creepin’, actin’ like a friend. But I’ve been warned, your deceit knows no end…It upset me to learn you act this way. Poor thing, it must be hard to be yourself each day.

I laughed and shook his hand and made my way back home. I searched for Sunday Comics for years and years I roamed. I gazed a gazeless stare, we walked a million hills. I must have died alone a long, long time ago.

He’s the man with a plan, got a counterfeit dollar in his hand! He’s Misstra Know-It-All! Take my word, please beware of a man that just don’t give a care! He’s Misstra Know-It-All!

Cubs make fires on the edge of the golf course, but…there’s more of them than us now and they have come to settle scores. So there’s bound to be some Sunday Comics on the B-road where they don’t fly the Stars and Stripes.

Why do you try to cheat and trample people under your feet? Don’t ya’ know it is wrong to cheat the tryin’ man? You better stop! It is the wrong ’em, boyo!

Put your hands over your eyes. Jump out of the plane. There is no pilot. You are not alone. Standby. This is the Comics. And this is the Sunday of the Comics. This is the time. And this is the record of the time.