There was this one guy who decided to only be dumb on Saturdays…hey, I kid you not, this is no joke. (I believe it all had something to do with that new cult who teach that you should put all your chickens in one basket.)
A Revolutionist who hears his mama, (or daddy), call him, has just gone AWOL.
That short, hairy ole sorehead passed me this note written on the back of a torn relative, it says, “It seems to me that the only things required to be a City philosopher are: a degree, a good memory, a decent haircut, and no personal ideas.” (Close cover when striking.)
Those who feel the need to defend their intelligence, needn’t bother.
This one guy I told you about, the one who lurks about, oftimes lying beneath some bushes in the park, the same guy that sometimes whispers stuff to me, but who doesn’t want to be identified or quoted, well, here’s his latest bombshell, he says, (more or less just so he can’t accuse me of quoting): “All words have their motive and all motives have their drive, all drives their engines, and all engines have their spark, and so on, bon ami, and so, to all words I say, ‘Greetings, great-grandchildren’.”
There is no way to prepare for the Revolution, and no way not to.