Author: Otto S. Fishbein

We act out all the stereo types, try to use them as decoy — and we become shining examples of the system we set out to destroy. ‘Cause even in the most radical groups you will find that when you read Sunday Comics, you’ve seen hard times. What will we do to become famous and dandy just like Amos and Andy?

Reading Sunday Comics on a cold dark night, I see a halo in the rain around a street light. I stop and look, and listen to the sound as the raindrops penetrate the silence all around. Alone, I gaze into the glistening street, the distant thunder echoing my heartbeat.

I been dipped in double meaning, I been stuck with static cling. Think I got a rupto-pix, I think I read the Sunday Comics! Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders, don’t upset us. All we ask is that you let us
Serve it your way! There’s too much paranoias.

One night Frank was on his way home from work, stopped at the liquor store, picked up a couple Mickey’s Big Mouths, drank ’em in the car on his way. At the Shell station, he got the Comix, gas in a can, drove home, then doused everything in the house and torched it.

His last words were, “we don’t know anything, you don’t know anything, I don’t know anything about love. And Sunday Comics, they are nothing, I am nothing without love.”

Well, with buck shot eyes and a purple heart, I rolled down the national stroll with a big fat paycheck strapped to my hip sack, a shore leave wristwatch underneath my sleeve…reading Sunday Comics with Cuban meals.

Who said mama’s little baby likes sho’t’ning bread? Who said mama’s little baby likes sho’t’ning sho’t’ning bread? That’s some lie some white man up and said. Mama’s little baby don’t like no sho’t’ning bread! Mama’s little baby likes Sundays! Mama’s little baby likes Comics! Mama’s little baby likes all the fine things of life! All the things a good person should have.

I’m alone, sitting with my empty glass. My four walls follow me through my past. I was on a Paris train, I emerged in London rain and…you were waiting there reading the Sunday Comics. I remember searching for the perfect words…

The hell of Northern Paris – Roubaix (Tour de France! Tour de France!)/Sunday Comics and Saint Tropez (Tour de France! Tour de France!)/The Alps and the Pyrenees (Tour de France! Tour de France!)/Last stage Champs-Elysees (Tour de France! Tour de France!)

It’s time to make a mountain out of a molehill, so can I have a volunteer? There’s no more time for reading Sunday Comics, now it’s time for crying in your beer. Settle down, raise a family, join the PTA. Buy some sensible shoes and a Chevrolet; then party ’til you’re broke and they drag you away…It’s OK, you can dare (to be stupid)!