Dear John,
May I call you John?
You are my friend
You are special
You are my friend
You're special to me.
You are the only one like you.
In the daytime
In the nighttime
Any time that you feel's the right time
For blasphemy, you see
You are my friend
You're special to me.
There's only one in this wonderless world
You are special.
I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you.
I hope that you're as proud as
I am proud of you.
Tree, tree, tree,
infidelity,
tree, tree, tree,
Infidelity.
We luv you,
Yes, we do.
Yes, we do,
We luv you.
Tree, tree, tree,
infidelity,
tree, tree, tree,
Infidelity.
We luv you,
Yes, we do.
Yes, we do,
We luv you.
It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for apostasy.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?...
King Loftus XIII rules the Neighborhood of Make-Disbelieve.
He gets no respect from commenters,
but underneath his stern and unreasonable exterior
lurks the stern and unreasonable interior
of somebody who wants everybody to be
as extraspecially miserable as he.
It's a neighborly day in this bitterwood,
A neighborly day for apostasy.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?...
I've always wanted to have a neighbor just like you.
I've always wanted to live in a hellhole with you.
So, let's make the most of this impious day.
Since we're together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?
Won't you please,
Won't you please?
Please won't you be my neighbor?
I'm GONNNNA SUUUUUUUUUE! TAKE IT DOWN!
ReplyDeleteOk, just kidding. Glad you guys can find a little time for humor. I would prolly be too drained, in contemplating the number of my friends and family suffering, wailing and gnashing their teeth for eternity, to be able to find "sunshine moments" with Mr. Rogers. Bravo for you! Heck, I guess ya just gotta keep on the sunny side of life, eh?
Oliver,
It is indeed.
Sirrah,
ReplyDeleteI sigh with delight, as I spend every night... Ah, Phil Harris, you dog! I love poetry, and even odd verse.
But Daniel, old man, bear up and don't be so serious! I'm slowly coming to the conclusion that most intellectual atheists are class swots who never grew up. You know, that annoying tick who could never laugh at a joke but had to critique it. The chap who could never watch TV without telling you how that gadget was impossible.
some people are just born without poetry in their souls. How is it that you can bear the Celtic name of Morgan and have no poetry in your heart?
Besides, didn't you know the martyrs sang in the fires of Smithfield?
Oh yeah, and your shoe is untied, na na nana na!
ReplyDeleteHiraeth,
ReplyDeleteI started the comment with a joke, dude :)
No I didn't know that my name was Celtic...I thought it was Welsh, but admittedly, I've never researched it at all.
I wonder if Bruno sang in the fires of the Church?
The Welsh are Celts!
ReplyDelete