March, baby, we need to talk. That lion-and-lamb stuff is an understatement when it comes to you. Good heavens to Murgatroyd, did you ever march forth.
Last night, you may have heard two seventy-year-olds yelling at each other, followed by their under-yellers yelling about the yelling. We’re not going to debate those debates here. But we do have issues to discuss.
The songwriters of the world can’t quite agree about September. Some want to remember it.* Some are trying to remember it. Some just want to be awakened when it ends. And then there are the cats.
If you have been, say, looking for some hot stuff, baby, this evening; perhaps even looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight; this July has surely pleased you. The news was incendiary. The temperatures were ghost-peppery. And the cats were sizzling.