I love The Beatles and I love nonsense so this was a perfect match. When you feel you've been thinking too much for one day this is the book to read it is just pure fun. The little short stories just make you giggle even if you're one of those people who never laughs when reading. This book also makes John Lennon seem more human since he has become this legend you get to see this silly but still genius side to him. Just a warning don't try making sense of this book it will just give you a headache just read it for kicks. To quote dear Mr.Lennon "this correction of short writty is the most wonderfoul larf I've ever ready."

Stories and Poems from
IN HIS OWN WRITE

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About the Awful

I was bored on the 9th of Octover 1940 when, I believe, the Nasties were still booming us led by Madalf Heatlump (Who had only one). Anyway, they didn't get me. I attended to varicous schools in Liddypol. And still didn't pass-much to my Aunties supplies. As a memebr of the most publified Beatles me and (P, G, and R's) records might seem funnier to some of you than this book, but as far as I'm conceived this correction of short writty is the most wonderfoul larf I've ever ready.

God help and breed you all.

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Good Dog Nigel


Arf, Arf, he goes, a merry sight
Our little hairy friend
Arf, Arf, upon the lampost bright
Arfing round the bend.
Nice dog! Goo boy,
Waggie tail and beg,
Clever Nigel, jump for joy
Because we are putting you to sleep at three of the clock, Nigel.

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Sad Michael

"There was no reason for Michael to be sad that morning, (the little wretch): everyone liked him, (the scab). He'd had a hard day's night that day, for Michael was a Cocky Watchtower. His wife Bernie, who was well controlled, had wrabbed his norman lunch but he was still sad. It was strange for a man who have everything and a wife to boot. At 4 o'clock whne his fire was burking bridelly a Poleaseman had clubbed in to parse the time around. 'Goddeven Michael,' the Poleaseman speeg, but Michael did not answer for he was debb and duff and could not speeg . . ."

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No Flies On Frank

There were no flies on Frank that morning - after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn't he? It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the bathroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn't believe it and his blood raised to his head, causing a mighty red colouring.

'I carn't not believe this incredible fact of truth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.' Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clouded his eyes with fearful weight. 'Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whise father Alec came from Kenneth -- through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April -- keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeline at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?'

He journeyed downstairs crestfallen and defective -- a great wait on his boulders -- not even his wife's battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank's head -- who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look. 'What ails thee, Frank? she asked stretching her prune. 'You look dejected if not informal,' she addled.

"Tis nothing but wart I have gained but twelve inches more tall heavy than at the very clock of yesterday at this time -- am I not the most miserable of men? Suffer ye not to spake to me or I might thrust you a mortal injury; I must traddle this trial alone.' 'Lo! Frank -- thous hast smote me harshly with such grave talk -- am I to blame for this vast burton?'

Frank looked sadly at his wife -- forgetting for a moment the cause of his misery. Walking slowly but slowly toward her, he took his head in his hands and with a few swift blows gad clubbed her mercifully to the ground dead. 'She shouldn't see me like this,' he mubbled, 'not all fat and on her thirtysecond birthday.'

Frank had to het his own breakfast that morning and also on the following mornings.

Two, (or was it three?) weeks later Frank awake again to find that there were still no flies on him.

'No flies on this Frank boy,' he thought; but to his amazement there seemed to be a lot of flies on his wife -- who was still lying about the kitchen floor. 'I carn't not partake of bread and that with her lying about the place,' he thought allowed, writing as he spoke. 'I must deliver her to her home whore she will be made welcome.'

He gathered her in a small sack (for she was only four foot three) and headed for her rightful home. Frank knocked on the door of his wife's mothers house. She opened the door.

'I've brought Marian home, Mrs. Sutherskill' (he could never call her Mum). He opened the sack and placed Marian on the doorstep.

'I'm not having all those flies in my home,' shouted Mrs. Sutherskill (who was very houseproud), shutting the door. 'She could have at least offered me a cup of tea,' thought Frank lifting the problem back on his boulders.

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The Moldy Moldy Man

I'm a moldy moldy man
I'm moldy thru and thru
I'm a moldy moldy man
You would not think it true
I'm moldy til my eyeballs
I'm moldy til my toe
I will not dance I shyballs
I'm such a humble Joe.

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A Surprise for Little Bobby

It was little Bobby's birthmark today and he got a surprise. His very fist was lopped off, (The War) and he got a birthday hook!

All his life Bobby had wanted his very own hook; and now on his 39th birthday his pwayers had been answered. The only trouble was they had send him a left hook and ebry dobby knows that it was Bobby's right fist that was missing as it were.

What to do was not thee only problem: Anyway he jopped off his lest hand and it fitted like a glove. Maybe next year he will get a right hook, who knows?

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Nicely Nicely Clive

To Clive Barrow it was just an ordinary day nothing unusual or strange about it, everything quite navel, nothing outstandley, just another day but to Roger it was something special, a day amongst days ... a red lettuce day ... because Roger was getting married and as he dressed that morning he thought about the gay batchelor soups he'd had with all his pals. And Clive said nothing. To Roger everything was different, wasn't this the day his Mother had told his about, in his best suit and all that, grimming and shakeing hands, people tying boots and ricebudda on his car.

To have and to harm ... til death duty part ... he knew it all off by hertz. Clive Barrow seemed oblivious. Roger could visualize Anne in her flowing weddy drag, being wheeled up the aisle, smiling a blessing. He had butterfiels in his stomarce as he fastened his bough tie and brushed his hairs. 'I hope I'm doing the right thing' he thought looking in the mirror, 'Am I good enough for her?' Roger need not have worried because he was 'Should I have flowers all round the spokes?' said Anne polishing her foot rest. 'Or should I keep it syble?' she continued looking down on her grain haired Mother. 'Does it really matter?' repaid her Mother wearily wiping her sign. 'He won't be looking at your spokes anyway.' Anne smiled the smile of someone who's seen a few laughs.
Then luckily Anne's father came home from sea and cancelled the husband.

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I Sat Belonely I sat belonely down a tree,
humbled fat and small.
A little lady sing to me
I couldn't see at all.

I'm looking up and at the sky,
to find such wonderous voice.
Puzzly, puzzle, wonder why,
I hear but I have no choice.

'Speak up, come forth, you ravel me',
I potty menthol shout.
'I know you hiddy by this tree'.
But still she won't come out.

Such sofly singing lulled me sleep,
an hour or two or so
I wakeny slow and took a peep
and still no lady show.

Then suddy on a little twig
I thought I see a sight,
A tiny little tiny pig,
that sing with all it's might 'I thought you were a lady',
I giggle, - well I may,
To my surprise the lady,
got up - and flew away.

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