Dire Straits - Money for Nothing original Lyrics

Boy, get ur granny a pawky pinch of sum tobaccee

 
   "Boy, get ur granny a pawky pinch of sum tobaccee"
   
   That southern-tongued sophistication, just put them in Faulkner's wardrobe--worked for Twain and Colonel Sanders, Twain before Faulkner, I reckon.  
   Mon cher, here's the Eucharistie, @ whatever prix.  
   And Bertha was putting butts in my mouth, with non-ignited cherry, when I was a timid toddler, waking up deep in the Confederacy, given many corn cob pipes before the age of six, for Popeye and the iron source of spinach were BIG at the moment.  
   I asked the fishermen at the park:  "Where did you get that fish, fine sirs?"  One utters:  "Boy, I brought it here."  I believed him, till I got home and drank a beer, finding common sense in the harvest of benign wheat, if there is such a thing.
   

Little old nature and Pittsburgh

 
   "Little old nature and Pittsburgh"
   
   He loathes the look of rats, yet even he would save a rancorous rat from an adder's baneful bite, armed with fanged toxicity that kinda/sorta electrifies with paralyzing poison, in the minimum, at least, save for the Badger of certain strengths.
   And the Badger hunts with Coyote.  A potent spirit and a ferocious beast of noble steel upon Terra's turf, so might a rock and roller say.
   What ever happened to Don Meredith?  The oldies were the goodies.  Are the goodies, Iceman.  My brother gravitated towards the Maverick character.  What a cocky son of a gun.  Nice.  And Padme Amidala, ornamented in the  Fleur-de-lis.  I always liked the Pittsburgh Steelers, covertly, especially their quarterbacks, but having two in Franco and Rocky, the lesser, but great one, having a decent portion of his foot blown off in Vietnam, yet he was both warrior and athlete, in the greater sense of that, and maybe more things.  

Get your virgin on

 
   "Get your virgin on"
   
   The worst day of the Virgin Mary's life, as Her heart/soul was pierced with a sword, under the rules of Occam's Razor, which would suggest, was watching Her Son die, getting brutally beaten, mocked, stripped naked, and listening to Him scream for Her @ Calvary.  Sure, for Jesus--He got to go to hell and kick some ass, unlock the doors, and do a prison break, but it was brutal for the most gentle of Holy Souls, Her yet to become, but always was:  Queen of ALL virgins.
   And yet She remains not in Heaven always, in a way, floating on the fuzz of a cloud, crooning Christmas carols, nor do the Elect, mostly--I would fathom.  She can super-position Herself, remaining involved in the ways of men and angels on Terra's battlefield, making a difference instead of enjoying the vacuum of paradise. 
   Yes, we mostly need the fundamentals.  It is dangerous to dig deeper.  But sometimes, you find out who you are, if you do make crusade.  As long as you walk alongside Christ, you can tolerate plenty of politicians and surmise the fruits of creatures, not judging, but avoiding or confronting.  If they think you'll avoid them; next, confront them.  If they think you'll confront them; next, avoid them.  
   Totally, Jim Rockford did it all the time.  

The Mystery of Life

 
   "The Mystery of Life"
   
   600,000 people, approximately, disappear each year.  Feds called into the State of Alaska like none other.  Implants.  Abductions.  Get a certain blood transfusion; next, pseudo-physicians take your blood everyday.  People, music, television--all programming you to doubt.  Like we're being bred for death, if only to become food for the Earth.
   Are all these people crazy?  Some things I've mentioned are fact.  Depression, blah.  But Multiple Personality Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Schizophrenia and others seem wondrously weird, as if not natural.  What man doesn't want to engage in sloppy intercourse?  From his perspective, a harlot's genitalia resembles a beehive, and he will not insert his dingus.  Good for him.
   So, you know everything?  I don't save that the possibilities are limitless.  Look at Schwarzenegger:  "Hey, I'm not a cop--I'm a player."
   But we forget.  We don't remember.  And as my German grandmother's father said to her when she married a poor Serb:  "You've made your bed, now sleep in it."
   Her heart however, did her well.  It wasn't all roses, or was it?  The best part of having a spouse--there's always somebody to nag.  Every spouse yearns for their significant other to die before them, mostly.  How many dumb guys I've met that say their tramps love them, and that they would never hurt them.  Possibly.  Possibly not, way more.  So, learn how to love, even yourself.  Be who you are, and not the envy of your sister's larger breasts, for they can knock a guy out.  Cupcakes are yummy.
   Is this like a caveat of Christ?  He is the Author of Life, and Big Brother (Him) wants us to believe, even if the world calls us fools.  Jack Kerouac never met a beer he didn't like, never saw it coming, and is iconic, so alive.  My butt doctor won't receive such recognition.  But there's a place for the authors of confusion as well--they get to meet their Daddy, while those that reside in truth, get to meet their dynamic Dad.  God Almighty.  

Mafioso without magnums

 
   "Mafioso without magnums"
   
   A savage saint kinda/sorta mentioned this; thus, I'm coyoting and paper-slinging the good news; next, delivering that resurrected media print, here we go:
   They say Trump can't get things done.  Hell, he's the only non-politician in the mix, save a few shiny objects in the flooding fountain.  Politicians are Mafioso without magnums; specifically, they're crooked goons, too wussy-washed to fight like a truck driver, but have dime-store thugs do their dirty work.  They're bought, sold, and paid for.  Of course they kinda labor, yet so does the bum, strolling from trash can to trash can--if only to feed himself; however, politicians are in the pocket of a corrupting power--give them term limits.  Trump reigns under that idea.  Conservatives, it's not his problem--blame the cheaper suits.
   Reagan and Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd were pals, of sorts.  Zodiac knowledge, survived assassination attempts, thirsted for the reversal of communism in order to actively allow people faith and some green.  Both, sharp dressers.  
   Not much in the skies lately, here.  But King David's words concerning the clouds and what they conceal reminds me.  You can check the flight schedule for commercial aircraft, and you know the Piper-types when you hear their piston-driven propellers; at the same time, the other ones have a sense of mystery.  Uncanny craft.  Maybe just ours.  Maybe going to the Pacific to hunt seminal submarines.
     

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