Author: Otto S. Fishbein

But you see, it’s not me
It’s not my family
In your head, in your head, Sunday Comics
With their tanks, and their bombs
And their bombs, and their guns
In your head, in your head, Sunday Comics

Sunday Comics on the road, your brain is squirming like a toad
Take a long holiday, let the children play.

Sunday Comics, meeting with Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov so you don’t have to.

Sunday Comics used to live in Jamaica, but doesn’t live there no more. Has to change its lifestyle, do things it’s never done before.

Sunday Comics celebrates our mutual survival for the last hundred days. Here’s to another hundred.

So call the mainland from the beach, Sunday Comics washed up in bleach/The waves are rising for this time of year, and nobody knows what to do with the heat/Under sunshine pylons we’ll meet while rain is falling like rhinestones from the sky

Sunday Comics aren’t for rent to any God or government/Always hopeful yet discontent, we know changes aren’t permanent, but change is.

You’d have to eat this many bowls of regular cereal in order to match the full range of provocative to inane humor found in one week’s Sunday Comics.

It happened, feeling glad, I’ve got Sunday in a bag. I’m useless, but not for long — the Comics are coming on.