Comrade:  Shampoo

   Four every and seven ever our fathers brought sabers, upon this continent, a new saber, conceived in gold, and dedicated to the proposition that "sabers are heavy."

   Now we are engaged in a great taste, testing whether Mexico, or any nation so dirty, and so again, dirty can long endure. We are clean on a great battle field of woolen moss. We came to taste a portion of it, as a final jubelee for those who died there, that the nation might Funk out. This we may, in all propriety my peeps. But, in a larger than life jiggy, we can not , --we can not -- we can not , --we can not -- we can not hallow, this OK? -- The brave men, living cowardly up in the hills, who struggled here, have midgets in it, far above our poor power to can laughter. The world will little note, nor long remember something; while it can never forget something else.

   Four nication and seven elevens open 24 hours a day, our fathers brought smallpox, upon this continent, a new kentucky derby, conceived in severly heavy drug use, and dedicated to the proposition that "Everyone should have a hooker!."

   Now we are engaged in a great nintendo tournament, testing whether Japan, or any nation so Hell bent on perfection, and so obsessed with honor can long endure. We are pissing in eachother's socks on a great battle field of higenic perportions. We came to build duplex housing on a portion of it, as a final Fuck You! for those who died there, that the nation might Erupt in uban subculture. This we may, in all propriety shit ourselves because we are too fat to get off our asses to use the toilet. But, in a larger box of easy cheese, we can not let the midgets win -- we can not tie our own shoes without help -- we can not hallow, this can of monkey spunk -- The brave men, living on minimum wage, who struggled here, have no fucking clue how they did it, far above our poor power to fly like superman. The world will little note, nor long remember Al Gore; while it can never forget uh,.... never forget.....what the fuck were we talking about?.

   Four bottles of Seagram's Seven and seven up later, our fathers brought forth the idea that strip poker would be a good game to play, upon this continent, a new deal, kind of like seven card stud but with threes wild, conceived in alcohol-fueled confusion, and dedicated to the proposition that "we'd all like to see that cute Miss Bresani naked, so deal her all the shit cards."

   Now we are engaged in a great bluffing showdown, testing whether a pair of sixes can stand up, or any nation so devoid of face cards, and so prone to being intimidated into folding early can long endure. We are trying to steal chips from anyone sitting close to us on a great battle field of green felt. We came to par-tay, motherfucker, and also to get Miss Bresani naked and win all your money, or at least a portion of it, as a final fuck-you for those who died there, that the nation might not walk out of here with its pants around its ankles, and with a sore asshole and come-stained ears, like last time. This we may, in all propriety agree is a less than desirable outcome to any strip poker game. But, in a larger gathering of card players, we can not draw to an inside straight -- we can not pick up four cards, even with an ace -- we can not hallow, this shitty hand, who dealt this crap anyway? -- The brave men, living it up on other peoples' money, snorting tons of coke and drinking far more than they should or than is even healthy, who struggled here, have completely and totally fucked it, far above our poor power to palm a friggin' ace or two from the bottom of the deck. The world will little note, nor long remember how we bluffed down a full house with a lousy pair of sixes; while it can never forget the sight of Miss Bresani's fabulous, milky, smooth breasts on display for the whole table to see. Damn, that was fine.

   Four scored and seven didn't our fathers brought hookers with giant hooters, upon this continent, a new social disease, conceived in Pittsburgh, and dedicated to the proposition that "blow jobs are a sacred right."

   Now we are engaged in a great bowel movement, testing whether I have enough toilet paper to get the job done, or any nation so confused , and so berieft can long endure. We are cowering on a great battle field of plum pudding. We came to make YOU eat the shit a portion of it, as a final testament that nobody really likes plumb pudding for those who died there, that the nation might get a "boner". This we may, in all propriety hand a wet towel from. But, in a larger drug induced sizure, we can not pee straight -- we can not write our names in the snow in Florida -- we can not hallow, this HEY...hallow THIS.. -- The brave men, living lives of quiet desperation, who struggled here, have split it, far above our poor power to maintain a really good erection. The world will little note, nor long remember Al Gore; while it can never forget ...um..I forgot..

   Four ty and seven blackbirds all baked in a pie our fathers brought to the Church potluck, causing much wetting of undergarments, and accusations of being affiliated with demons, and thus they are never to set foot in any Mormon church, upon this continent, a new CAR! A 2001 Toyota Carolla with Kimmel suspension and Drew brakes, which can be YOURS if the Price is Right, which was, conceived in the feverish mind of Bob Barker after neutering one too many teacup poodles in one day, and dedicated to the proposition that "must not be used to end a sentence with."

   Now we are engaged in a great gage, from which we cannot disengage ourselves, testing whether teacup poodle scrotums can make clever little change purses for Barbie dolls, or any nation so  so-so, and so sew-sew can long endure. We are hung over, and have just woke up on a great battle field of Civil War re-enactors pasting fake beards on us, giving us whiskey, and amputating our limbs that they have dyed gangrene. We came to rather dislike a portion of it, as a final countdown! Dada da da! Dada dadada! for those who died there, that the nation might ask not what it can do for you, but ask you what it can do for this annoying rash it has. This we may, in all propriety , actually get around to doing. But, in a larger apartment, we can not throw our trash into the wastebasket as easily -- we can not move it closer to us, for that would be too easy -- we can not hallow, this pumpkin, because it feels really icky on the inside. -- The brave men, living la vida bibliotheca, who struggled here, have Armageddoned it, far above our poor power to pour some sugar on them. The world will little note, nor long remember the next Alien Ant Farm single; while it can never forget that clever pithy little cover they did.

   Four hours and seven minutes our fathers brought cheese, upon this continent, a new Coke, conceived in the back of a '79 Dodge Charger, and dedicated to the proposition that "Disco Sucks."

   Now we are engaged in a great Pepsi Challenge, testing whether or not we can tell Pepsi from Jif, or any nation so hungry, and so wacky can long endure. We are crab grass on a great battle field of constipation. We came to eat a portion of it, as a final 21 potato gun salute for those who died there, that the nation might smell. This we may, in all propriety screw up. But, in a larger car, we can not make tight left hand turns -- we can not fit into most standard parking spaces -- we can not hallow, this stupidity -- The brave men, living in sin, who struggled here, have screwed it, far above our poor power to comprehend. The world will little note, nor long remember Michael Bolton; while it can never forget The Cappers.

   Four lads from Liverpool and seven albums later, our fathers brought Sgt Pepper, upon this continent, a new revolver, conceived in strawberry fields, and dedicated to the proposition that "Everbody's got something to hide except me and my monkey."

   Now we are engaged in a great yellow submarine, testing whether happiness is a warm gun, or any nation so rubber, and so soul-ful can long endure. We are within you, and without you on a great battle field of a day in the life. We came to Abbey Road, or at least a portion of it, as a final magical mystery tour for those who died there, that the nation might come together. This we may, in all propriety carry that weight. But, in a larger octopus's garden, we can not let it be -- we can not dig a pony -- we can not hallow, this long and winding road -- The brave men, living on the one after 909, who struggled here, have the inner light of it, far above our poor power to get back. The world will little note, nor long remember lady madonna; while it can never forget the old brown shoe.

   Four lads from Liverpool and seven albums later, our fathers brought Sgt Pepper, upon this continent, a new revolver, conceived in strawberry fields, and dedicated to the proposition that "Everbody's got something to hide except me and my monkey."

   Now we are engaged in a great yellow submarine, testing whether happiness is a warm gun, or any nation so rubber, and so soul-ful can long endure. We are within you, and without you on a great battle field of a day in the life. We came to Abbey Road, or at least a portion of it, as a final magical mystery tour for those who died there, that the nation might come together. This we may, in all propriety carry that weight. But, in a larger octopus's garden, we can not let it be -- we can not dig a pony -- we can not hallow, this long and winding road -- The brave men, living on the one after 909, who struggled here, have the inner light of it, far above our poor power to get back. The world will little note, nor long remember lady madonna; while it can never forget the old brown shoe.

   Four dollops of sour cream and seven swans a swimming our fathers brought herpes, 7-Up, and pure, unadulterated horror, upon this continent, a new way to trim toenails, conceived in rich, creamery butter, and dedicated to the proposition that "all your base are belong to us. Oh, and your Cheetos, too."

   Now we are engaged in a great hurry, brought about by the loaded shotgun pointed to my head, testing whether my bladder is as strong as I thought it was, or any nation so fair in face and full of grace, and so floopy can long endure. We are young, heartache to heartache we stand on a great battle field of cappuccino. We came to split open, gut, and drink the blood of  a portion of it, as a final show of love for those who died there, that the nation might kiss our collective hinder. This we may, in all propriety abandon in favor of poker night, instead. But, in a larger dung heap, we can not spit -- we can not swallow -- we can not hallow, this pumpkin seed. Get your minds outta the gutter! -- The brave men, living in a material world, who struggled here, have said "aww, f*ck -- it, far above our poor power to calm, our power to comfort, our power to quit. The world will little note, nor long remember the macarena; while it can never forget the funky chicken.

   Four plus seventeen is twenty-one and seven plus twelve is nineteen. Now that I've astounded you with my mathematical prowess, my dear, let's move on. Remember when our fathers brought us to summer camp, and we fell in love beneath the stars. Ours was a love we thought could never be, but then, upon this continent, a new bond of love was forged, conceived in the back seat of your mother's Toyota Corolla, and dedicated to the proposition that "what goes around comes around" and "I'm sorry, the baby isn't mine."

   Now we are engaged in a great big room, testing whether maybe my mathematical prowess is really all it's cracked up to be. And does Ecuador, or any nation so far away from us really have anything to do with our story? I think not, and so many people agree with me. Ted, this guy I know, says our love, because it so pure can long endure. We are what we are. You are like a huntress on a great battle field of my heart. There, I promised myself I wasn't going to cry and now I have. We came to our senses, take the wedding cake out of the refrigerator, eat a portion of it, as a final cake-eating gesture. Remember how the rental agent told us they painted the kitchen walls red, white, and blue for those who died there, that the nation might -- what was it she said? I can't remember, I was drunk. It doesn't matter, my love. This we may, in all propriety do something that would mean more if I knew what the word propriety meant. But, in a larger mouth, these false teeth of mine would be too small. Don't you think? At any rate, we can not -- um, what's that word? -- we can not hollow? hello? halo? hallow! -- we can not hallow, this would be wrong. Remember the brave men? -- The brave men, living upstairs in the room your parents rented out in their old house? These men, who struggled here, have names. Ed. Bob. Little Timmy Sue. Do you remember it, far above our poor power to see what they were doing to each other, those naughty men. The world will little note, nor long remember what I've said here today, and in fact I've forgotten why I started. But while the world may forget this meaningless jumble of words; while it can never forget where I left my pants. I just wish they would tell me.

   Four Tequilas and seven shots of Jager later, our fathers brought a huge fucking bar tab, upon this continent, a new whore was born, conceived in the backseat of a 1973 Dodge Dart, and dedicated to the proposition that "that ain't my kid!."

   Now we are engaged in a great dna battle, testing whether or not this kid is mine or Phil's down the street, or any nation so that i don't have to pay childsupport on some bastard kid, and so i can spend my money instead of hookers and beer. like she said "you can long endure. We are passed out on a great battle field of Pabst blue ribbon and Milwalkee's best. We came to drive the porcelian bus, a portion of it, as a final quest for those who died there, that the nation might donate to AA. This we may, in all propriety ,what the fuck is propriety?. But, in a larger fish bowl, we can not swim -- we can not breathe... -- we can not hallow, this mortal coil -- The brave men, living in dumpsters, who struggled here, have a rank smell about them and lettuce on there head. lettuce, it, far above our poor power to preform on command. The world will little note, nor long remember who the hell i am..nor will i in the morning..; while it can never forget that chick i knocked up in that Dodge Dart.

   Four Dishes and seven Sinks our fathers brought comdoms, upon this continent, a new sex life, conceived in diapers, and dedicated to the proposition that "We are all just big babies."

   Now we are engaged in a great problem, testing whether we sould grow up, or any nation so dumb, and so lazy can long endure. We are not on a great battle field of stuff. We came to  school a portion of it, as a final exam for those who died there, that the nation might do somthing. This we may, in all propriety  not be a good idea. But, in a larger bathtub, we can not dress up like little girls -- we can not dancing around to our Werid Al tapes -- we can not hallow, this  is just SO stupid -- The brave men, living in a tralier park, who struggled here, have nothing to show for it it, far above our poor power to the kids who used to beat up steal our lunch money and stuff us into lockers. The world will little note, nor long remember what idiots we were back then, and have are kids look back on it and think it's cool; while it can never forget , ahh go to hell.

   Four skins and seven samurais a leaping our fathers brought a paid escort to our Thanksgiving dinner, upon this continent, a new level of embarrassment for the holidays, conceived in a hottub I was, and dedicated to the proposition that "every good motel should have a continental breakfast."

   Now we are engaged in a great sweater, eh? Ballsy, testing whether we "can still turn on our man" in Cosmopolitan, or any nation so toked up, and so wasted can long endure. We are not men, but Devo, on a great battle field of earth (no relation to crappy L. Ron Hubbard book). We came to bury this caesar salad, not to pay for it, or even a portion of it, as a final insult to that waiter who smirked when he called me "sir," for those who died there, that the nation might be a litte more careful and not buy Ford with Firestone tires anymore. This we may, in all propriety pry this son of a bitchin' mayonnaise jar open. But, in a larger pair of underwear, we can not feel as "snug" as we usually do. Oh, shit! Did I fart? Er, 'scuse me, where was I...? Uh -- we can not fit an entire bunch of bananas in one single mouth--no! Wrong speech. Uh... L'see -- we can not hallow, this holler--shit! Sorry, got my cards mixed up. Uhm, fuck the police--no, wrong... Maybe -- The brave men, living large and in charge, who struggled here, have had it up to fuckin' here with all of it, far above our poor power to lift a suitcase full of french bread, 'cause we're strong like Superman. The world will little note, nor long remember I was the man who invented the phrase "kiss my ass"; while it can never forget that fuckin' guy who created Napster.

   Four minutes and seven Heinekins ago our fathers brought over some beers an... anna pony or somefin', upon this continent, a new Lincoln, damn nice car , conceived in the back seat of one like that, that's what my mom says , and dedicated to the proposition that "maybe we should crack open a few brewskies and get naked in the back of the Lincoln."

   Now we are engaged in a great big tent of marryin', testing whether or not monkeys can swim, or any nation so full of monkeys should or shouldn't buy a swimmin' pool, and so you really have to question the logic of buying that leaf net, and that "Pool Jamz" CD that nobody not already sterile can long endure. We are bound to get sick on a great battle field of bad pool music and deck chairs. We came to our senses over a portion of it, as a final beer was drank for those who died there, that the nation might consider us heros or at least damn good-lookin'. This we may, in all propriety imagine happening only after we've completely pickled our livers. But, in a larger ballroom, we can not help but breakdance or do the ass-scoot -- we can not be expected to pay for that broke ice sculpture -- we can not hallow, this goddammit I said 'Hi!', you think you're too good for me?!? -- The brave men, living in Atlanta just dropped six straight to the Brewers, freakin' pansies, who struggled here, have had trouble with the SATs elsewhere too, it's a fair system if you think about it, far above our poor power to pass it by guessing all "C"s. The world will little note, nor long remember those funny post-its I left on your car that one time; while it can never forget that time I got naked with your niece, like a million freakin' years ago. Damn.