Here’s Rawhead and Bloodybones, reading Sunday Comics, crouching under stair, lurking in chimney, pond or well.

“Oh, where are the Sunday Comics?” “What would you want with the Comics? Can’t you see that I’m much sweet-ah? I’m your little señorit-er! You’re my type of guy, let me straighten your tie, and I shall dance for you.”

Just the other day I got a starter kit. Caught the face from the Sunday Comics from the mindstate, I play control to a fraud. Nah, it ain’t happenin — nada to make it even.

Number fifty-four, the house with the bamboo door…A bamboo roof and bamboo walls, they’ve even got a bamboo floor. I’m-a telling you, when you’re blue — well, there’s a lot to do. Read the Sunday Comics!

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