Now away in the near future, Southeast of Disorder, you can shake the hand of the mango man, as he greats you at the border. And the lady she hails from Trinidad, island of the spices, salt for your meat, and cinnamon sweet, and the rum is for all your good vices. Haul the sheet in as we ride on the wind, that our forefathers harnessed before us, hear the bells ring as the tight rigging sings, it’s a son of a gun of a chorus. Where it all ends I can’t fathom my friends, if I knew I might toss out my anchor, so I cruise along always searchin’ for songs, not a lawyer a thief or a banker. I think I memorized that damn song when I was about nine.
I finally finished reading 'Last Hours of the Ancient Sunlite' last week or something, and now I'm not reading a book. Lately I've been reading Beatles and various other musician lyrics and poetry from the Big 3 of the Harlem Rennaissance.
Once I go home for winter break, I'll be reading The Silence of the Lambs for the 4th time. I wish I hadn't left it at home though. Meh...
