I’m trying to remain calm. I’m intensifying iTune therapy hoping to be swayed, shimmied and satisfied. But even in the vertical, the horizontal just doesn’t adjust. I know what’s wrong and right; what goes around comes around, ask Mary Brown — Charlie Brown?  Enough! Enough! Enough! I’m in a metal firecracker. Don't tell anybody the secrets. What secrets? The Gestapo goulash tastes of sugar beets. The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky are also on the two faces of the people going by shaking hands saying, “How do you do?” They're really saying, “Bend over, I’m a screwdriver.” Am I losing you?

What the hell am I suppose to do? I don’t want hear about it, but so many still have to carry the cross. It ain’t as simple as changing your oil. Baby please… we need to learn a new language, you know, sandblast the Rosetta Stone smooth — no rough edges. Toleration! Modification! Fornication!

Some people say the world’s a strange and evil place; all the shadows fall across your face. Fuck them ‘cause others say the sun shines every day, that we should live life come what may… oh please…! Fuck them too. I’m on a turntable going round and round. I just can’t put you down. Call Dr. John. I need a remedy; I need a cure. Stack-A-Lee tell the jailer to adjust my John B. Stetson hat before Bruno gives the rope dance a ten. The disappointed do appoint while anointing the annoyed.

It's strange… so strange… a midnight moon shines through it all in the daylight of self-indulgence. Cue the arpeggio. Blow the harp. Sometimes I get so tense…. Should I shed a tear ‘cause I'm missing you? Well? The storm was wild but you went out and ain't back yet. I bet you're wet and now it's late and life's a great big surprise. It hurts so nice…. Uh huh huh… u’mm u’mm u’mm.

You know if you break my heart I’ll go, but you’ll be back again, ‘cause you once told me goodbye. Can’t you find better things to do? Who knows… not me: the man who sold the world insists that I never lost control. Oh ho, oh! Am I going to do this by myself? If it sounds bad, tell the cinnamon girl. I can be happy for the rest of my life with just her. Yes, I’m a dreamer of pictures, I run in the night naked on an ovaltine high after digesting ovarian oatmeal. Say what? Say again? Huh?

Now I gotta know that it's not like before, and I’m not gonna play your games anymore. Do I need to say it again? put it nice? put it right in the wrong? Do I? Way down here in the present, you and me need a reason to relate. It sounds so sweet. It makes it so right. But the Sunday train comes on Friday with no crackers — just Motrin and morphine dripping morphenomenal myopic madness. Indulge if you will, partake of the parfait. Sometimes I wonder. Now I just fold my arms.

So, should I shed a tear ‘cause I’m missing you? Hell no! It’s just one more story all my friends can tell — read… rate. Please don’t fake it, oh never break it ‘cause I just can't take it. Now if you’ll excuse, I’m going California dreamin’; she’s so genuine. But first, I need some Florida sun enclosed in the oblong horizontal with much moxie. I’m fixing a hole… filling the cracks that kept my mind from wandering. And it really doesn't matter if I’m wrong; I’m right where I belong….