There's a monkey on my head.

That's just how it feels of late.
And my blips have been a bit dreary to say the least.
Thank you if you've bothered your arse commenting.
You are loving and generous to a fault.

Frank the monkey tells me I'm past my best, and I must prepare myself
for nylon housecoats and drinking cheap wine out of a hollowed out tramps'
scrotums. Sounds like fun. As long as I'm able to shave the pubes off, and the tramp doesn't move around too much.

Excuse me, the monkey wants me to dance.