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A day in the life of this all American (boyish) chap defies edification mainly on account of this mister mom besieged from laboriously toiling away (whereby every hard day’s night fraught with a shot of rhythm and blues domestic/ marital malaise), yet I compose this letter (thence sprinkled with a taste of honey to seal the envelope) to acknowledge your acclaim, whose absence akin to a world without love.
All across the universe (specifically the web and skein of life on planet Earth) fans of the nonpareil fabulous four (with those icon mop top haircuts) epitomized the aura, dogma, karma and persona to act naturally in general and follow the beat of my own drummer (essentially thy motto sans all I’ve got to do) in dealing with circumstance.
As all things must pass (all together now, we the people) ought to embrace the philosophy that all you need is love in tandem with a picture of George Washington crossing the Delaware River.
Such simplicity to give peace me a piece of(within the panoply of one global chorus accompanied with that sweet twittering tweet as your bird can sing her/his acapella aria any time at all or ask me why dutifully demonstrates that baby it’s you!
This indigent papa envies that baby you’re a rich man globetrotting and welcomed with opened arms (devoid of hammers or sickles) when back in the USSR feigning (while thick in the haze of Beatlemania) to be a bad boy.
Now this grateful dead head at the crossroads where the chronological transcept sans half century plus creates a voluminous quarto amalgamating thine life as a regular old hybrid between a junkyard dawg and scruffy yardbird.
Unbeknownst to the casual observer, this pent up talking head constitutes a contemplative holistic day tripper prepares, who himself for a comment to the affect “don’t bother me” (meaning yourself) whose presence most likely hounded more than eight days a week inquiring by the commoner or paparazzi about every little thing, which queries might include the methods per fixing a hole, flying, and/or how to be free as a jaybird.
Lady Madonna beseeched to intervene per this fool on a hill (doubling up on halloween as a: 1. beatle browed king crimson; 2. cold play ying mister kite, 3. dirty harry; 4. eleanor rigby 5. flipper; 6. Godzilla; 7. Hercules ....
This inner quiet riot evidenced by lonesome tears in my eyes) revealed to thine self upon glancing into the looking glance whereby misery and the penchant for money (that’s what I want) and seek while traveling along the long and winding road far from the birthplace per mother nature’s son.
No reply expected per this communique from nobody I know (meaning this guy noir nowhere man) who truth be told lives in an octopus’s garden housed in a yellow submarine surrounded by strawberry fields forever, yet aspiring to be a paperback writer.
