I Write Storys To Entertain Not To

This Knowledge Sits In My Heart, Heavy As A Paperweight.

If You Know Somebody Very Well, Like Your Grandmother Or Your Baby Sister, You Will Know When They Are Real And When They Are Fake.

The Violins Waltzed. The Cellos And Basses Provided Accompaniment. The Violas Mourned Their Fate, While The Concertmaster Showed Off. The Flutes Did Bird Imitations…repeatedly, And The Reed Instruments Had The Good Taste To Admire My Jacket. The Trumpets Held A Parade In Honor Of Our Great Nation, While The French Horns Waxed Nostalgic About Something Or Other. The Trombones Had Too Much To Drink. The Percussion Beat The Band, And The Tuba Stayed Home Playing Cards With His Landlady, The Harp, Taking Sips Of Warm Milk A Blue Little Cup. “but The Composer Is Still Dead.

That Night Was A Dark Day. Of Course, All Nights Are Dark Days, Because Night Is Simply A Badly Lit Version Of Day.

Everyone Tells You It's All Right To Cry, But Not Enough People Say It's All Right If You Don't Want People To Know.