Our Godfather
Who art in
Twickenham
Hallowed be thy nose

The fingers strum, thy
songs be done,
On
Earth as they were in London.
Give us this day our daily records;

And send us some VIP passes,

As we forgave
those with passes who arn't us.
Lead us not into the
Lifehouse;
And deliver us from
Psychoderelict.
For thine is the
Boathouse, and the power chords, and the groupies.
For ever and ever.

Poem by Yellow Ledbetter
 

 

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Last Updated August 9, 2002

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