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January 10, 2006


The following dialog is all in Liverpudlian. It's inspired by a conversation that my friend Matthew and I had in San Francisco. I don't know how funny it will be without the accents and acting. The idea is that John Lennon starts doing beatnik poetry.

John: Hello Paul.
Paul: Hello John.
John: Where are we Paul?
Paul: San-fran-sis-co John.
John: Where's the green gone Paul?
Paul: Don't know John, don't know.
John: There's a tree.
Paul: A tree?


Yeah, a tree, in a pot, by a car, in the lot. We're stuck here, in concrete land, a concrete band. Where's the California sand? Just tall buildings and no grass; there's no class; also got to watch me ass. I want fame; that's my game; in the big city; have some pity. There's bums on streets; that's not what beats — my drum: I want bums on seats.

We came too late; wrong date, wrong year. I want chicks who dig my gig, my band, they'll sit or they'll stand. It should all be planned.

We all live in a yellow submarine with a fat walrus named Lucy, Lucy Love, or was it Penny, Penny Lane? What a shame, what she became: A traffic warden; but still my helpful friend.

Don't know what I'm saying; must be playing in my head. Nuff said.

Paul: You alright John?
John: Yeah Paul. Shall we go now Paul?
Paul: Okay John.

"I think you're brilliant. I loved your piece. I look forward to reading whatever you send. You probably have no idea how many people support you, love you ... and look forward to hearing from you." — Annie


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