Old Moon Fades Into The New

Nope, I'm not turning 31 tomorrow. Nope, you can't make me. NANANANANA--see, I'm putting my fingers in my ears so I can't hear you say "Face it, Marty, you are turning 31 tomorrow." NANANANANANA--Hey, whudya have in your hand, Father Time? Is that, is that a cattle prod? Well, I don't care. I'm still not turning 31. Gonna be like Peter Pan, my man. No, not "light of foot" smartass, though I do have rhythm for a yellow brutha. I mean I'm gonna be a forever young sociopath with poor impulse control--hmmmm, OK, not the sociopath part. But you know what I mean. Hey, back off with the cattle prod! Really! I know, like, secret martial arts and stuff! Hmmmm? Why that's nice of you, Father Time, offering me a nice Guinness. Gosh that's good. You know, there was this chick I saw in Orange County drinking a Guinness once, and she . . . whoa, I feel kinda funky. What did you put in this? OOOoooOOoooohhh, hey dude, I can smell the colors man. And AAAAAAAGGHH, dude, what's up with the cattle prod? You friggin drugged me already. What's the AAAAAAAAAAAGH! Hmmmmm, what's that smell. Ooooooooogh . . . .