You want to hit me with a stick. But all

You want to hit me with a stick. But all I've got is a guitar pick.

And I am gonna kill you softly with my song. I'm gonna strum your pain with my fingers, sing your life with my words. Why? Because you give me too much flack. So put the stick down

, sit down & listen to my song." He perched on the wooden stool, a single spotlight shining, & sang the most God-awful solo I'd ever heard. His music was death to me, but the audie

nce went crazy and everyone pulled beavers out of their large knapsacks. Soon the sound of crying beavers attacked my ears, and I ran towards the exit. The bouncer at the door

Shook his massive head slowly from side to side dourly and pointed at my pants. You've got a beaver in there or my name is Roger Rabbit.

I pulled Beaver Cleaver out of retirement. He had a beard now and looked like a professor! He was a painter now, like Jeffrey Hammond-Hammond, his musical and artistic idol. Roger

Rabbit was now a gray hare and decided that his days as the Easter Bunny would soon end so he could go forth and finally check a few thing off of his bucket list...like

building a time machine so that he could go back in time & beat some sense into God about how bad the whole idea of the egg is. Surely God can come up with something better. Rabbit

the Fold for Folding a Fold that didn't fold into the Fold a certain Folder Folded. Maybe a felonious Folder, who fooled a few fellows felling firs & flirty fishing you into a cult