The Kinks

Crush me slowly into small pieces. It helps me feel again. All those feelings I have lost. All those feelings given to me so many years ago by that special man and his special friends. Mr. Ray Davies was the only man who could touch my heart and soul like no other man could. His words fit in my ears like those new jammies fit around my crotch. The jammies that mum gave me last Christmas. Ray Davies had that touch. His music was a flower garden filled with the manure of many well-fed pups. The shit of the dogs birthed an array of beauty the likes of which the world has not since seen. Yet thanks to the time Ray spent recording with his cohorts in the old days, the children of the new earth and the slowly dying crawlers of the old one can still feel his power through the airwaves.

Ray would hold me when I was sad. The tears in my eyes were his muse. He took my sadness and it became art. I fed his shitting pup, and it brought forth the flowers. The flowers brought the bees. They wrote articles about the music and said it was good. Some disagreed. Such is life.