Striper Song and other 94 nonsense

Gotta lay offa them stripers

Cause my arm’s about to explode

Can’t get enough of their action

Can’t think of any other mode

We came to see if what you’re doing

Is within the legal limits

We came here to tax your fun

And about that bag, can we see what’s in it

(2X Mercury outboard) Merry Christmas Mass

Sinbad the Sailor saw Robert Taylor

And promptly kicked his ass

Old man, you’re just jealous

Young men wag their fingers

Sickly youth ask for a cigarette

Or something else to smoke

I don’t write that often, nor produce voluminous amounts—however, when I write…it can be pretty bland at times, yes. Or un-thought-out. Spotty at best. Been raining for a week now, damn. Leaky roof, chasin’ the cat round and round. No need to go out, people comin’ right to my door with their damn-ass business. Ha. Can’t talk to you now, Molly, I’ve got a zit on my nose. No don’t let your hair down, aww. Just leave the scrub brush and the rubber stamp, you can pick up your stickers Tuesday. Yes, bring a check. $115, the price of an ounce (or $12 in Mexico). A day’s work. Flood advisory—get camcorder.