The result, "Headed Home," is a lilting ballad that even its author can't repeat without tearing up. The lyrics, he said, refer to Kennedy's heroic return to the Senate where Kennedy has served for almost 46 years and Hatch for 32."Heroic"?
Showing up to nudge the economy another step toward collectivism is "heroic"? The language has really been cheapened that much, or are the "Authorized Journalists" just at it again?
If this doesn't validate Quigley, I don't know what will. You'd think Hatch would know better.
I think a word from Sir Paul would be fitting now that we're all feeling the treacly, cloying love:
You'd think that people would have had enough of silly love songs.If you'd like to send Teddy a silly love song of your own, well, that's why we have "Comments" enabled here...
But I look around me and I see it isn't so.
Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs.
And whats wrong with that?
Id like to know, cause here I go again
I love you, I love you,
I love you, I love you...
6 comments:
Sorry David, I have no "love" for the murderer "Teddy." Justice should have been served decades ago — and he should have been put to death. (ref. Gen. 9:5-6; Acts 25:11, KJV)
The fact that Mr. Hatch likes Teddy a little too much is sickening. It clearly demonstrates just how unprincipled Mr. Hatch is — and how rotten Washington DC has become.
Nice reflection on our society.
Well, it's not a love song, nor to Mr. Kennedy, particularly, but...
And the band played Lennon's "Imagine"
As they prodded us onto the trains
They'd promised no harm
If we would but disarm
Now the shower room has no drains
(Apologies to Eric Bogle and Rudyard Kipling)
Excellent. Chilling, Mr. Olds.
People who care about The People and their rights should not be able to sit in the same room, huge though it is, with Kennedy, Schumer and their kind without dragging them across their little desks. It's a show for our benefit.
A song, eh? What rhymes with "Chappaquiddick"?
"The Chronicles of Riddick"?
"You're gonna kill me with a SOUP CUP?"
"Tea, actually."
"Yeah, right."
THWOCK!
"Urrgghh..."
When I think of Fathed Ted, I'm reminded of the poem "Ozymandias."
In an eastern desert land stand two trunkless legs of stone. Nearby a shattered visage lies, with curled lip and sneer of cold command.
"I am Ozymandias. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. The lone and level sands stretch far away."
Fathead Ted. Don't want anyone to think I meant "Father."
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