Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top
Sam with the showing scalp flat top, Particular about the point it made. (I got it . . . ) Why, when I was knee-high to a grasshopper, This black juice came out on a hard shelled chin. And they called that 'tobacco juice'. I used to fiddle with my back feet music for a black onyx. My entire room absorbed every echo. The music was . . . thud like. The music was . . . thud like. I usually played such things as rough-neck and thug. Opaque melodies that would bug most people. Music from the other side of the fence. A black swan figurine lay on all color lily pads. On a little conglomeration table of pressed black felt. With same color shadows, in seamed knobbed knees, and what-nots. The long hallway rolled out into oddball odd. Beside the fly-pecked black doorway, That looked closed on the tar-lattice street. Up a wrought iron fire escape. Rolled out a tiny wooden platform with dark, hard, dark rubber wheels. Roll, skreek! Roll, skreek! Roll, skreek! Sam with the showing scalp flat top, Particular about the point it made.
Sam was a BASKET CASE! A hardened dark ivory clip held . . . saleable everyday pencils. I wish I had a pair 'o bongos! Bongo Fury! Bongo Fury! Oowwwww! Bongo Fury! (Boogie!) Bongo Fury! Bongo Fury . . . Bongo Fury . . .