Was the odd assortment of bones we spread before you, these femurs and skulls and scattered phalanges, evidence of a naturally integrated and simon-pure undertaking?

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Every time I see a bird, I apologize. There but for the grace of . . . well, not God, certainly.

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Even when you think you know your way around a new purchase, it goddamn pays to read the manual.

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An unpaid pitchman, I even sent Kriss to Eisenhower. “Do it the Satchmo way and you’ll feel 10 years old.”

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I’m a high-strutting yo-yo diet, the gut and down every year or so. But people fixate on my weight, like I got cancer. No, I got Swiss Kriss.

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Two Freds, one the composer the other the tromboner. Got to have both or this hit would need a church organ donor.

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That song’s first “A” didn’t show up, must’ve been sick. That “A” didn’t show up, could’ve been sick. Or maybe missed the call ’bout the gig between my lips.

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The melody sounded like twinkle twinkle’s great uncle oompah loompah: “I see trees of green . . .” Label wasn’t seeing the same green cause they only offered me 5 c-notes.

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I am pushing this bicycle twined with ribbons & flags & enormous bells through the elaborate marble lobby to the bar.

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The long double row of skulls adorning the curved wooden bulkhead walls reminds us that in the midst of death we are in life.

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