552 Search Results for: sunday comics

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 hard times. What will we do to become famous and dandy just like Amos and Andy?

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 thunder echoing my heartbeat.

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.