Ken Morrison

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Ken Morrison? Who they? Why - he twelve feet tall on one big stilt, hopping hopefully, while he tickle trees. Oooh - be careful, Ken! He don't have the tattoo on his ankle - no, no, no - he just wear the colourful sock when he need that lower leg decoration. Oh lordy, then he take it off again at night. My. Same with his arms, where decorative sleeves can fit the billy. Ken Morrison? What they do? Multi faceted mutant songsters, I think. Does he wrestle with snakes? No he hateses snakes, but in a scaredy cat kind of way, not a beat them up kind of way. Same goes for alligators if truth be told. And liars of the truth. Ken Morrison? Somebody new? Only to you. Why, he's a tatterdemalion. He's a junketer. He's a thief and a dragonfly trumpeter. Having been on the face of this orb for long long, crashing out favourite tunes to the rythym of life and rocks and rolls. He writes books too. Imagine that. He doesn't even have a pencil. Or a book. But dear dear "Ken", as he often calls himself - he been playing his tunes to deafening ears since time was a lad. My word. Now he plays his his lonely guitar like wind, to the sound of his songs, and makes people dance like horses and smile like Vauxhall Vivas wherever his fireball falls, that he may sing and gurn fashionably. What a twit. He would want you to like his songs, if he were here today, which he is, so he does. Maybe even, in time, you might love them slightly. If so, you could be fan 9. If not, let not sadness nor negativi

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