"O Throbby Bunch, clarify my evolution. Give me succor or money. Be not impolite till tomorrow, when I can pay you back with the shirt off it. Take now the bus, the BuBu, by which sow and swine can, at 44th Street, transfer to a happier time and clime, a soothy swatch of sand castles, which is, in fact, Sacramento. Asketh me not to repeateth, okay?

"Read not the manuscript on the seatback; it is of the dwarf trollops who scandalize all but the most knowing prophets and fudgemongers, through whose living room I am just passing. The bus, o the bus! But it continueth on, not to Sacramento, but to a propinquity of Juggles, which maketh me sad and also a little envious. Yea, shall I squawketh not.

"O Peamy, thy son is borne to the dwarf trollops, yea, but I receiveth not the cigar. Bother thus not for a match. Thy spoon encased in green wrap hath on the undercarriage a trove of useful particulate matter: mouth lichens who fester and dance the fandango. O BuBu, thy name is near forgot till I have cause to remember suddenly and squeak. Mark my words, though not with the felt pen which so deftly ye clutch in thy sweated palm. Between the dribbly chops goeth the spoon and properly green wrap, and lo are the festering dancers profilactized, skip to my BuBu.

"As mohair on the cosmic car seat is nary a distant relative of Peamy, so the whole caboodle shall be not passed through with pleasantries and clogged artifacts. A gaggle of apricots is surely a nominal gift to the Mom in her kitchen magic hideaway. Alas, her ambient balance is upset somewhat by a factory-authorized nervous busdown.

"Where then is BuBu? Why, Sacramento! And why not? Asketh not this. Selah.

"Withdrawing, my lungs respond to the throes of discontinuity. And lo are my pants stained hastily with permanence. Dance, o cows, dance. Dance with the ants and frolic in the bucolic, for the grass is of that ilk contrabanded in Colombia. Peamy, Bunch and Germs, thou dissolute procrastinators of simplicity, wherefore art thy tickets? You cannot otherwise be seated and, lowing be whole, you might miss the festive dances of bovinity. O Dad, cut out enough your murmuring. My throat hurts already.

"Whither, worthy whistlers, when we won't wait while white waves wax where weepy weevils wheedle with whimsy. The Sacramento cow awaiteth her fate with cement sentiments and a mood somewhat less than chipper. Still, all of the clams are happy. They can catch a cab and avoid boarding the bus, the BuBu."

A reading from the Book of Fulton, chapter 10, by Saint Matthias, whose feast day is today, there being no composer anniversaries of worth to note on this, the special 40th episode of Kalvos & Damian's New Music Sesquihour, bon radio, this portion of which is being brought to you as usual by le flambeau oriange. None other.

None is also how many times we will ask you, our listening audient, to pledge your radiophonic support to the Sesquihour in our hour of need, what with today's dearth of both snacks and guest, i.e. the lately inextinguishable Keith Moon, who opted for a future radio rendezvous. And now with a menu du jour of music, the theme of which was up for grabs mere sesquiseconds ago, it's all a la carte to Kalvo.