The fact that I cannot get a lawyer despite a myriad of hostile injuries that broke the laws of Americans (probably systematically) has long been touted bombastically as a matter of international equity by a gangster division in New York with no real concern whatsoever for such arbitration beyond how it serves as design. The relationship between England and Ireland was totally lost on me. I loved King Crimson and trusted them completely only to discover they were driven wholistically by the prime directive to drop a bomb on me no matter how innocent my pleasure in them nor receptive my gratitude for their example and achievement.

All of their doings are found out to be mired with intellectual ferment. This they lisp all knowingly as glory to their soothsay. There is a book on the European past I had secured prior to the covid bomb which in the early days of that toll of geriatricide was one of the books (one of two on Weimar or its refugees, the third being by Dorothy Thompson) which gave me my courage back after the gloom of the surprise attack’s Hitler dimension fell like a guillotine over our lockdown (do not speak you will come to Great Goblin’s attention in a time you can be easily deposed). It is by Peter Jelavich with jacket designed by Sandy Drooker.

Written in 2006 it laces its double theme nearly imperceptibly when recounting a call in Germany past for declaring a broadcast a national treasure to ease its restriction from circulation such that it will be removed from airplay. He then straightsforth in his book to limn both the play Man is Man and another play S.O.S. for poetic reverie, thus delivered to the reader. Let’s them two.

This German play, Man is Man, is infinite to the beyond in ruminations of effervescent higherness strutting as its achieve turning a peace-loving and fair heart into a monster of war as only I Am The Walrus has ever turnstiled Hitler himself into the walrus of a friendly ghost to the twisted lisp of here here mirthfully saccharine with hired love.

Curtsy, exit stage right (that appears far left to the audience).

As for S.O.S., well, one longs for a good deed yet that such a marvelous tale is much consigned to oblivion is a point greater than many great books.