way down in the valley-oh

I drove my car back from Massachusetts last night singing on the top of my lungs. I sang every song I know. Every showtune from every album I had as a child, from every play in high school including the parts I never got. Before that I sang about the woman who swallowed a fly. I don't know why she swallowed a fly. I sang about the rare bog in the valley-oh, meeting a bear up in the woods, about picking up a bumble bee. Then I went on to all the lyrics I could remember of all the pop songs and all the folks songs I could think of. Unfortunately, I couldn't get very far on those without help and so I just switched to a new song when I couldn't remember a verse. Which is why I ran out of songs to sing when I was still in Connecticut. 

When I finally arrived in Brooklyn, my throat was hoarse. And when I reached under the seat to grab my stuff, my hands closed around something unfamiliar. It was the crack pipe belonging to the asshole who stole my radio. I rasped out a quick curse on its owner and shattered the thing under my heel, but it didn't make me feel any better.

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