Thirty Years and Two Days Later.
I’m talking about you today, John Lennon, because I forgot to remember to forget the tragedy of rock and roll music, the day before yesterday, when across the universe - here, there, and everywhere - young blood and paperback writers sat in their yellow submarine(s), watching rainbows and crying “oh! darling, tell me why” while searchin’ for help to carry the weight of their long, long, long misery. From me to you, John Lennon, and also for no one, I’m gonna sit right down and cry in the rain and twist and shout like a madman, under Mr. Moonlight, until my guitar gently weeps. Because you’ve got a hold on me - eight days a week, on my birthday, at Christmas time, under the carnival of light - how do you do it, John Lennon? I’ve got to drive my car, act naturally, let it be, and follow the sun, like dreamers do, in spite of all the danger - even if I’m a loser - to get back a taste of honey after a hard day’s night because you know my name and you can't do that. John Lennon, we can work it out when I'm sixty-four. Until then, do you want to know a secret? PS I love you. The end.
Yup, some awesome writing there, missy.
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