Riding The Storm . . .

Wet and dreary today; the gulls kept low, flying beneath the heavy clouds on the edge of Lake Ontario. A couple of old dears scurried for cover, heads hung low, mumbling something about low-flying bats. "The only bats round here are on the ground," said Jools as they staggered by . . .

Whatever . . . Here's The Doors, Riders On The Storm . . .