Aristotle. King Charles 2nd . Samuel Pepys. The works of Mr Gary shakespeare, Sir Anthony Hancock. Mr Stephen Fry for being too clever for his own hood. Hoodies who are not really our enemy but are merely misunderstood and are in need of a hug from a thug. John Hedgley, Taxi drivers , sedan chair carriers.My Lord George Frederick Handel and most who partake in the noble arts and sciences
The music of the spheres. Fine madiera and long afternoon strolls in Vauxhall pleasure gardens. Staring down an ample cleavage. . . . . . Splendid.
Sounds Like
All work of THE RIGHT REVEREND TRISTRAM SHANDY-DRINKER is COPYRIGHT unless stated.
Howdi his holiness hows tricks? Hope alls well in the haimat, have a listen to the rocked up demo version of "Into The Sun" first song on my player. Whats up with Achim? Got some gigs coming up in and around Munich fancy supporting me?
A whisper of Shambhala is lingering in the air, The gusto of it all with demons everywhere. One more kick at the beaten and battered cat Before all hearts grow forever cold. I really don’t give a flying fuck about that. I’ll sleep when I am old.
I’ll sleep when I am dead While all the hungry demons chew upon my liquid head. I’ll sleep when the party’s past. For now. . . with my control I’ll fight all real. I’ll make the unreal of all my selfish moments last.
An invite to all the new and young To sleep when they are old. Their wealth will feed my hungry, choking lungs To throw them out when I am done. With no thought or care for what’s ahead, I’ll sleep when I am dead!
Keep them coming one by one. Feed the hungry demons in my head. My craves throughout the days and nights have won. I’ll sleep when I am dead!
It doesn’t matter, the thickness of the blood. Bring non-ending, poisoned food. Fuel the insanity of the manik flood. Enjoy the fullest of my twisted rude.
So, fuck the world as the story’s told. I’ll fucking sleep when I am old! I’ll sleep when I am fucking dead!
I’ll ride my liquid pour and up and down of high And miss the awake of all life’s real instead. I now sleep to pray the comfort of goodbye.
Please rest my painful, weary head. From life to death without a cry The time has come to die. I’ll sleep now that I’m dead!
The moon has passed us With its’ fullness once again. It was earth mothers’ magik way To have a peek and lighten up the night While preparing for the eyes of time To see the magik of the day.
The empty souls were crying more and more For them to let us in As they scratched about their way. Lost souls in absent tears With manik pain and endless fears, With no thoughts about their day, With no thoughts about their years.
The constant of insane, A muffled cry for us to ease their plight. For fuck sakes ease this torture Of pleasured, ruthless pain With a call for hope and the kiss and touch Of earth mothers’ gentle might, A might we crave and need so much!
Earth mother heard the cries of naked woe. The sky grew to an eerie, demon black Foretelling where they could end up Or choose to go, The magik clean of mind Or the deadly dust of blow, With the blackness of a pull And a whisper to come back From where. . . . . . . we’ll never, fucking know!
And then came the brightness of the moon, So bright to blind all eyes that stare. The blind of simple black and white, The power of the moon and sky, All souls and minds and hearts were bare, A foreshadowing reflecting those about to die With earth mother sadly watching While she shed a simple tear to cry . . . . . . . But no one seemed to care!
I planted a single rose. I needed thirty more. It was hard for me but I suppose what made it easier, I had seen the row of rose before.
It was my humble way to keep track of tracks And count the numbers of the dead from the demons, precious score. One by one they had come to me, all elves with no fucking apple tree. Twisted, bent with souls for rent. Crying, pleading, bleeding, dying! One common hope, to kill the demon feed, To kill the demon need and never need more fucking dope! A plea for a little hope.
I planted a single rose for the elf who tried to fly While driving off a cliff as he fed his manik high. . . . . . . . . . . . . . He fucking died.
I planted six for those who couldn’t satisfy their fix. Instead they slit their wrists and clenched their fists And now they’re dead, Not to mention the ones with bullets in their heads.
Another four decided to tie the magik knots of death Around the silence of their screaming throats And kicked the chair. Too late, not a soul was fucking there.
I heard it once from a book of tragic words of life. “A rose by any other name be not the same,” The same with tortured, little elves through out their life, So lost deep within themselves. They felt the need to stash themselves and slash themselves away With the dullest of the gun and knife. The demon doesn’t give a flying fuck about which name we use. His one and only goal is to help the junkie, fairy, trollish elf to lose, To take his fucking life!
To all the little elves out there, let me show to you, the humble fairy cares. Beware! . . . . . . . . . . Don’t help me plant a rose for you. To live or die or crave the rotten, demon high! Little elf, it’s time for you to choose! The number is now at thirty-five. Don’t be the next to die. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Don’t be the next to loose!
The American Chav equivalent breeds prodigiously and is rampant in L. A. wearing Sean John clothing and Nautica and listening to hippity-hop in platform tennies, oy.
Good Lord, Sir! Beer AND lemonade, in the same glass??? Are you sure that's wise???
Cordially yours, Bob
Oh, and don't be to harsh on the youth of today, when they get stressed, they can't just have a fag like we used to when we were children, poor little buggers!
Hello Reverend! How nice to hear from you and I'm glad to know you're still as bonkers as I am! I send you my very best wishes for a wonderful mishchievous weekend! Your esteemed friend, Bertie!
My dear Mr. Reverent. As long as you shanty is shanglin and the Trishons a trippin than i will forgive you all of your drinkin and a whimpin. extraordinaringly your Feng Shuli
I fear the guilt for such unconscionable negligence must rest as much with myself, my dear Rev! Did I say to thee I moved to West Sussex following my daring escape from South London? I'd say about approx ...er ..umpteen leagues ...or sommat... from thy biblical self!
Hello Tris Bless bless you father for you have not sinned:-) I suppose all these myspace excorcisms that you are doing are keeping you busy eheh,,,eh Heres to you cheers mi dears Laurie ps. couldnt see the full comment you posted ?
Bilbo and his little, magik crew. Are glad to hear from such a pleasant rumbltyfuck as you. He isn’t mad or sad or even red or blue. He might be just a little touch of glad At hearing a word or two from you.
Don’t apologize for the natural, elfish way you are. Your truest nature was shown to him by the magik of the stars. Bilbo has, for many years, known a rumbltyfuck or two. The rumbltyfuck merely masks the elfish way of you.
He giggles and he laughs at all the little masks. The reverend is a little, rumbltyfuck elf with his magik little tasks. Through the inner beauty of your word and song, Bilbo has fucking known this all along.
So have a pleasant day In your little, elfish way. My noble, little, rumbltyfuck elf, Bilbo loves your little way.
Adding Keyboard-Tracks to your music - if you want to :)) Online. Comfortable. Fast. THE time- & cost effective way to get your customized keyboard overdubs!
Hope to hear from you regularly with keyboard-track needs for your music :) Let's do something together sometime!
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Hi ..... thanks for taking the time to add me - best wishes with your music - I'll be popping in from time to time for a listen.....all the best..David
The watcher is standing In the shadow of the tree Forever watching as words and thoughts Take shape for what and end shall be.
He looks upon the noise and haste As wondering minstrels choose their lives and place. They sing along with a joyous song Of empty minds and face.
The trees have wind to take them near and far and high. The watcher soars to follow souls And reaches to the highest depths Of all eternal skies.
He scoops the gypsies, vagabonds and such And guides them from within So souls and hearts won't feel the pain Of demon dealer love with all it's touch and sin So they will feel the truth of love again . . . . . . .And win.
The watcher stands in shadows tall With a caution in the air. A guard is up for one and all. There may come a day and sometime soon To feel the love from inside out And dance upon the moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And shout.
