Hoarding Potatoes.

I'm hoarding the rotten potatoes just in case I do need them one day. Every day, gazillions of things happen and we don't know / tis. How could we? Sometimes, we don't understand patois. Well, I don't... can only speak for myself. What's going on? I have no idea, so I leave the radio on to catch the news. I feel confused, and it feels like home - home is where the heart aches, you know. Life's what you make it and the rest of all those stereotypes. Speaking of Stereotype, there's Jerry Hall and The Specials singing for me, but it's a message to Rudi. Who the funk is Rudi? And where?!? I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning - it seems only yesterday, but I didn't find Rudi... well maybe I did but he just hasn't told me. He probably had his reasons. So I let the radio play. And maybe I talk to the wall to see what it has to say. But how could I see it? Not that I think walls could talk. Nooooooh. Not as long as you tap my wire, Sir. Now watch me arm the potatoes... this place is coming like a ghost town - bands won't play no more - too much fighting on the dance floor. And Shirley? She sang "Some people don't dance, if they don't know who's singing. Why ask your head - it's your hips that are swinging! Life's for us to enjoy, woman, man, girl and boy, feel the pain, feel the joy - aside set the little bits of history repeating... ......................[mh-k, no tahm and iatoy-2]