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Why oh why oh why oh why on earth on earth on earth

on earth, on earth on earth ... hey hey hey will someone

please nip into the control room and turn that digital echo

off please? I'm trying to write a bit of doomed poetry out

here and it's really not helping.

That's better. Why oh why oh why oh. No. I'm still getting

It. Look, are you sure you turned it off? No. No, that's the

compressor. It's the one in the rack underneath ... hallo?

Green flashing light. Yeah. That's the one. Whaddjamean

"It's not there"?

This is still the studio isn't it? It's not? A police station?

Okay okay. Well, ask the desk sergeant if he can go into

the control room and by-pass the echo unit and while he's

about it, get him to roll some of that bass off. I'm getting

a horrible rumble every time the studio - I mean cell door

gets slammed.

That's better. Right. This poem. Why oh why oh why oh ...

Hey! This is getting beyond a bloody joke. Not only

am I still getting the echo, but now I can hear voices

in the background. A male one and a female one.

My solicitor? Wow. She's quite pretty isn't she? But

who's the bloke? Oh ... he's my solicitor. So the girl is ... ?

My girlfriend ... Right. Yup. Well. Absolutely.

But all these wasted opportunities. The cuts and bruises

This headache. The deep yearnings and cravings. The

constant desire to be misunderstood in a doomed kinda

way. And this repeating echo. That's the drugs? Right.

But what about the periodic arrests and all these guys

in blue clothes? Oh. That's the reality? Right. Ermm ...

Yep. No. Not at all. Thanks for clearing that up for me.

So I'll stop then, shall I?