Are congressmen flocking to our shows? Yes of course they are; be patient.
Although you have a large or monstrous or misshapen head, still you do have an audience.
I'd like to thank you all for coming; we do need a board of directors.
Is it time to expand? The "claw" reaches out; the enterprise ill-fated.
The record's on, the record's on. Someone should observe me in my next incarnation.
WOW!
Sitting on the roof of the car, the record's on, to tell people of my standing... Flee down the stairs 600 times.
Hey! What's the difference between "Free Friday" or Saturday and any other day? You drop in... it ends up in a train -- an overhead train...
The prowling of animals is a problem I know about, yes.
The problem is... You can bend math rules -- I've seen it.
Although I do... I went from being a low-life... Perishable will be safe these days...
Travel with illusion of John, honey?
Thinking about breaking Batman and Robin -- Robin (Bird) is the female. These are his chronicles.
Do you have a SPIKE DURZEE -- or -- DOOZY?
The record's on; the record's on! He probably has a different idea of "pretty."
She's wearing a shiny black plastic miniskirt, and the word "C OMPANY" (with a red "O") is written in large overlapping letters across her thighs.
Have you noticed those new baby carriages with three bicycle wheels shaped like tricycles? What's the advantage? Lightweight? Fast? Or do they wish to invoke the protection of the Egyptian Gods?
Everything looks interesting to me today. I think I finally woke up on the right side of the bed.
I am a pretty good eater. I enjoy my food, and make a small mess of it, eat relatively quickly, but am aware of crumbs and flakes. Pick at my teeth with a fingernail.
A well-dressed but nervous woman sits with a stack of seven typewriters on her knee, she is dressed for business or for playing Charlie Chaplin. Poised to type or about to run -- one of the typewriters is baby blue. These are not her children, these seven typewriters.Seven typewriters for the seven days of the week.
The woman with the seven typewriters has short, straihght, light-brown hair. She's wearing fire engine red lipstick. From her appearance we conclude that the time is 9:50 AM. The woman is secretary to The Fates. She is about to quit her job. Life is too short. She's about to step outside, for a smoke. To burn the whole place down.
The woman with seven typewriters is not your typical revolutionary. She's unpredictable. A loose cannon. We want her on our side because we're the self-destructive team. The other side consists of worried bald men, peering out from second-story windows. We want her for her nervous eye, red lips, blunt shoes, and silly cuffs.
Did I tell you of the problems in the world today? They were made necessary by television.
At least our sun is pretty -- through the late-morning fog -- reflecting off white, green, and purple.
From reflection comes repose -- oh, boy -- now I have my own underarm mechanic?
Uh... I didn't say it last night, and I didn't say it in concert, but I think about my... uh... BIG BUTT.
Sung (by Ray Davies):
They
say
I'm
negative
still
"His social values incomprehensible to him."
DICK REPORTS.
Seated, half-asleep, I want to move among the instruments and take the data.