What You Don't Read Is

I Am So Tired, I Can Hardly Type These Worfs.

The Violins Waltzed. The Cellos And Basses Provided Accompaniment. The Violas Mourned Their Fate, While The Concertmaster Showed Off. The Flutes Did Bird Imitations…repeatedly, And The Reed Instruments Had The Good Taste To Admire My Jacket. The Trumpets Held A Parade In Honor Of Our Great Nation, While The French Horns Waxed Nostalgic About Something Or Other. The Trombones Had Too Much To Drink. The Percussion Beat The Band, And The Tuba Stayed Home Playing Cards With His Landlady, The Harp, Taking Sips Of Warm Milk A Blue Little Cup. “but The Composer Is Still Dead.

I Love No One But You, I Have Discovered, But You Are Far Away And I Am Here Alone.

This Is Like A Cookie, It Tastes Like A Cookie Having Sex With A Doughnut.

I Think There Are Probably Just As Many Adults Who Would Miss The Humor Of My Books, If Not More, As There Are Children.