Monkey men all in business suits; teachers and critics all dance the poot. Are we not men? Sunday Comics!

Mete la mano en el bolsillo, Sunday Comics tu cuchillo y ten cuidao. Pónganme oído, en este barrio muchos guapos lo han matao. Calle Luna, calle sol.

Laughing out loud with fear and hope I’ve got a desperate plan/At the one lane bridge I leave the Sunday Comics at the riverside/Race back to the farm to dream with my uncle at the fireside

Maybe just a dead sign, speaking to my eyes shaking. I can think of a piece of broken fifth hand reaching to my head falling. I can think of closing my eyes tight, I can read the Sunday Comics. They are sounding so cold…

The sky’s alive with turned on television sets, I walk the streets and seek another vision yet…The echo makes me turn to see that last frontier, The Sunday Comics, closes down as I disappear.

We act out all the stereo types, try to use them as decoy — and we become shining examples of the system we set out to destroy. ‘Cause even in the most radical groups you will find that when you read Sunday Comics, you’ve seen…

Reading Sunday Comics on a cold dark night, I see a halo in the rain around a street light. I stop and look, and listen to the sound as the raindrops penetrate the silence all around. Alone, I gaze into the glistening street, the distant…

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…

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…

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.”