let it be

This is my version of let it be

When I find myself in times of towel

Mother spit comes to me

Speaking donkeys of door

Let it Be...

And in my burrito of terrorist

She is drop kicking right in front of me,

ditching words of monkey,

Let it Be.

obituary

My best friend died yesterday this was the obituary that was put in the paper

The hot dog of caketown, born May 13, 1881 passed away this week from pigeons at the age of 23. He was a(n) watery bread best known for his work in dogs, and will be missed greatly. He lived in teddy bear, pizza from 2323 to 1776, and shrimp from 5298 to infinity. He is survived by 2 children, 1000000 grandchildren and 3 great grandchildren.

my trip to the park

The other day, I took a crappy trip to the park by the moose. Once me and my stalker arrived we saw demonic bunnies playing on the flamethrower. They looked like they have having chunky pudding. Then there was a salsa that wasnt paying very crazy attention to their weeds. That really licked me. Then myself and my shoes returned to my mold for a stringy Food. A stupid evening indeed.

romeo & juliet

But, soft! what tv through yonder poster readings?

It is the trombone, and Juliet is the english.

kissing, fair hat, and throwing the dark file,

Who is already spanish and mexico with book,

That thou her pencil art far more furry than she:

Be not her clock, since she is bright;

Her fat shoe is but short and mouse

And none but jackets do knoking it; swimming it off.

It is my lady, O, it is my pool!

O, that she knew she were!

She fightings yet she openings nothing: what of that?

Her soda discourses; I will eating it.

we the people...

We the hobos of the United States, in order to beat a more perfect panda, establish signs, insure chunky tranquility, provide for the common fishs, promote the general hair, and shave the blessings of socks, to ourselves and our birds, do ordain and whip this constitution for the United States of America.

think different

Heres to the brown ones, the peanuts, the feet, the heads.

The shiny pegs in the freaky holes.

The ones who jump things differently.

Theyre not fond of calculators, and they have no moustache for the status quo.

You can dance them, hop with them, explode them, sniff or wave them.

About the only thing you cant do is smack them.

Because they bite shirts.

They spin. They punch. They rock.

They hit. They scratch. They wait.

They twist the pickle forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.

How else can you fall at an empty tooth and see a work of pants?

Or sit in glove and slap a shack thats never been farted?

Or fight at a red hobo and see a box on wheels?

We make guitars for these kinds of people.

While some may see them as the yo-yos, we see superman.

Because the ones who are stinky enough to change the tofu, are the ones who listen.

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