And On The Day We Hit The Coast, I'll Re-Read The Postcards sent to me by a Sweet Homewrecker from Clayton Park with whom I used to French Inhale. Each one reads "I'm Sorry If Your Heart Has No More Room" and other Noosed and Haloed Swear Words that cross The Great Pacific Ocean at My Expense as though I've been Snubbed From The Back of The Film.
"Before You Leave," I will write back, "know that life is nothing Without You."
I know It's Strange To Be Involved now because at one time you really Hated It, but If You Got An Answer This Week, Darling Don't Worry because I Came and Went and I truly believe that We Are Being Reduced.
Oh My Soul.
And by the time you get my note, my pink Radio Blaster (coloured as such because - after all - Pink Is The Colour) will be playing Songs For The Gang, and my Claim To Lame will be Cott between a Patriot and a Smart Bomb.
The only question I have now - OK, I've got 25 All Right? - or at least the most important one is, Oh Man, What To Do?