Over fed and under worked, annoyed by every bird that chirps, I want my teeth to cease their chewing. Northern lice and white lab lights are shining on the chef who's stewing. Doing duties 'till they're done, is not the way one has his fun. He shoots his gun at those who run. If joy had weight it'd weigh a ton. Throw your hats down in the street, and dance around and eat some meat. Smile at the folks you greet while walking down the festive street. "I like you're style walking man. I like the way you swing your hands." (That's what the people say to me)