hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!
Hello hello, and welcome to this tiny slice of space! It was so cold until you came. Did you get lost along the way, whilst looking for the music of a supermarket magnate? Ah - not here. Not here. No matter what. Now you’re here, sit down, sup from the cup of human kindness, take a bite of pie, and let me tell you what’s going on.
Ken Morrison? Who they? Why - he twelve feet tall on one big stilt, hopping hopefully, while he tickle trees. Oooh - be careful, Ken!
He don’t have the tattoo on his ankle - no, no, no - he just wear the colourful sock when he need that lower leg decoration. Oh lordy, then he take it off again at night. My.
Are you still reading? Congratulations - you’re nearly through to the other side. They have cheerful chilterns and garden crockery there, void of point but happy with glee, so it’s well worth the journey. There’s a cupcake for the meek, for example, so bear that in mind, and keep going if you can. Rest when you need it. This is where idiots slumber. Drink again from the yellows and reds and greens and other flavours of candour, (mostly reds - I’d recommend the reds) and recharge your better nature... now...
Ken Morrison? What they do? Multi faceted mutant songsters, I think. Does he wrestle with snakes? No he hateses snakes, but in a scaredy cat kind of way, not a beat them up kind of way. Same goes for alligators if truth be told.
Ken Morrison? Somebody new? Only to you. Why, he’s a tatterdemalion. He’s a junketer. He’s a thief and a dragonfly trumpeter. Having been on the face of this orb for long long, crashing out favourite tunes to the rythym of life and rocks and rolls. He writes books too. Imagine that.Playing his tunes to deafening ears since time was a lad. My word.
Now he plays his his lonely guitar like wind, to the sound of his songs, and makes people dance like horses and smile like Vauxhall Vivas wherever his fireball falls, that he may sing and gurn fashionably. What a twit.
Please be listening to the tunes here whilst you reads this. They’re Ken’s songs, you see. He lives often, and has done many thousands of show offs - some by his own self, and some with others just like him. And all without sleep. Many without pants. So tired. So icy in the nethers. When he lives he favours the muse of others, loving to be David Bowie, or Alex Harvey or Queen or Thin Lizzy or T Rex or Rotten Johnny (but never Elton Johnny, who is rotten)... so many to tell you about, but I mustn’t detain you with such sensory lullabies of such detail, rich and scandalous.
But these songs here are Ken Morrison ones. He wrote them with his head, and some dark coloured ink made from the sap of a plant from a far away place near here. Except the one he didn’t. He didn’t write that one. He would want you to like the songs, if he were here today, which he is, so he does. Maybe even, in time, you might love them slightly. If so, you could be fan 9. If not, let not sadness nor negativity prevail, because he doesn’t care that much, frankly. But pull up a sitting seat another time, my dear, as we’ll change our tune from time to time. They’re yesteryear tunes, when Ken was back then, in a thinner trouser, and bits of tape were filled with song. But they’re new to you, that’s all that matters. Tim and Alec and Angus were there in parts, flitting in and ouch, like whimsical butterfrogs. Ah, the past. He hopes to go there again one day. Vwooorf vwooorf. The tardis has a dodgy turbo apparently. Vwooorf.
Time is a-march. Mother will serve tea shortly.
Listen. New tunes approach from a far off decision - hark - do you hear them cry to you? They long for your approval although they are not yet born.
Listen. Pro Tools is a mysterious fanny, so you just don’t know. Put on your pants, wipe your brow (and that of a friend) with one of those pre-moistened tissues which are meant primarily for piley bottoms, and come and see the shower.
"Yes" is the word you are looking for.
isn’t it?
