Dear Diary, Well, here I is wit me shoes off, holes in boat me socks, me feet on up on me desk, in me big orfice surrounded by purdy maidens all in a row.
I’s got me an orfice full a dem purdy maidens. Reckon I’s got whad dey calls dere in da Middle East — a harlem. Yes, boys, I got me own little harlem heres in da big city.
Dear Diary, I guess I’s would be dismiss if I wuzn’t to welcome da new group leader from dats utter group, Rev. Barrel.
I don’t knows Rev. Barrels meself but from whad I hears he’s a good nuff fellow. A man of da clot, after all.
Dear Diary, I wuz gonna write dis week, den I wuzin’ gonna write. Den I wuz gonna write, den I wuzin’ gonna write. I just kept friggin’ flip-floppin’ back and forth. Back and forth.
Dear Diary: I’s too diserpointed to writes dis week, ’cause me communicable gal Floral Munroe has up and gone down de road. Be back next week.
Dear Diary, so, we now moves into da post-David Buoy Era. I wuz sad to hear of he’s debt.
I’s remember listenin’ to all he’s songs on the Philco — Take Me Home, Country Roads; Sunshine On Me Shoulders; Rocky Mountain High — but me own personal favourite Bouy song, hands down, is Tank God I’s A Country Boy!
I’s really likes dat one!
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