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Such as how does this not clean dance-making of the American United States come for filling with noise like goat courtings the boxes of juke in our cities as modern as anywhere? Not in happy past was such thus! No! Then no more than boy-men their man root hacked than forth smeared in mud of ibis went to hand choke Unooni, backward-seeing-cat-with-eye-in- dirt-making-place. That way is fat bride fine payed in mother's uncle's cattle-not standing with blue janes on at liquor cafes popping all your thumbs out to listen at the rock-which-flops-over and making the jitter-insect. What many-cowed girl with legs wide as baskets would think plenty of this? Not a single few, oh young men, I bet! Is this the school students we send across oceans, dressing them in shirts white as a dog-mouth's foam with our hard taxed paper currency bearing attractive pictures of beloved Jomo Kenyatta and in fine sheep stuff trousers which end up so neatly small around the ankles above shoes that tie with cords and also socks, that bring back this cello-faddle? I hope so not. For those very fortunates are being made Judges and Veterinarians to build our land Chevrotets and cement, also guided missiles who go where they are told plus shiney bowls which cannot break in our future. This much hardly can we be having done with all our thumbs popped out. Better is to listen with the nose flute and tree bellows for songs of our ancestors in great killing times. Here is big chanting in this and plump- footed dances for long as growing a calf in the cow's intestines. Such is "Pluck-The-Livers-From-The-Monkey-People." A good song. How can those who are having ancestors such as plucked the livers from the monkey people talk before their mother's uncles of the rock-which-flops-over that has only three drums? —Ombutto Umbushari Niarobi Claxlon-Herald (P.J.O'Rourke Executive Editor National Lampoon Magazine) |
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