fiddles

Fine fiddle Fiona
It's the nicest tune
In town

Fine fiddle Fiona
You're not welcome there anymore
Dear

Marx Poem

But what about Engels?
What about him?

up the ladder, through the window, the raining night sky

the funny pages

He hated the newspapers. The broadsheets even more so than the loathsome tabloids. However, he was obsessed with the newsagent. Something about his eyes and voice and stature drew him to him. So everyday he would go in to his shop to buy one of the day's publications. It did not matter which to him and which one he bought differed from day to day according to his want. His want changing according to which title he wished him to say out when he put the publication on his counter; The Sun, The Guardian, The Telegraph, and so on. This went on until one day he read in the obituary section that he had died. He had seen him that morning in the shop when he bought the paper he was now reading but there he was dead. There in black and white. He never went in to his shop again. It was the last newspaper he ever bought. He was awfully young.