Let us begin to clarify that the Walrus is not a villain.
John Lennon is more than an idol. Can I be a child who lays on his stomach begging for comfort? Can the words “aspiration” be the gentle hands only a mother can possess? They will grace my back, send signals through the spine and systematically syncopate a splendid sleeping pattern. Let that not be a dream, but a reality. Let us then begin to understand what John Lennon is.
Beyond his physical state of existence or his conscious grasp of the sensory overload we all endure as sentient beings; let us appreciate the legacy of John Lennon. Let us begin to understand that his death, his murder, the bullet have now become a holy trinity in my perplexing existence.
I am the Walrus, goo-goo-g’joob.
You cannot live until you die. You cannot die until you live. So then logically, I am the Walrus! Goo-goo-g’fucking-joob.
So the man dies. He is the first in the pact to perish and he is the first to be named. To go down in history? Well down he went. Down with his guts mingling on the pavement. His wife holds him while the rest of the world blames her for breaking up their new derived faith in mankind. Little do they know that she was the snake in the garden. She made the man act and forever curse the man to rain sweat off his back. She is neither the eggman or the walrus.
So goo-goo-g’joob all over her paisty chest.
But that does not make me a villain. The walrus eats too many oysters. He eats them, but feels bad. This makes Alice like him. But then another man tells her what to think, tells her a different side of the story. Notice the order. So then Alice changes her mind. Goo-goo-go fucking figure! These shoes are not the right shade of orange. So now she likes the carpenter more. One wears a suit, the other has bandages over his hand. One feels bad, the other feels exhausted, full.
But what does Alice know? This is a man’s world. But it ain’t nothing…
Alice knows the Walrus. She knows (well now knows) he hid his truth behind something. A façade. Did he have what the carpenter had, or did he have more?
I am the son of a carpenter. I cried as a baby, my back was scratched to put me to sleep. Too many blondes tripping down the rabbit hole have scratched my back; besides, I prefer brunettes. I don’t hide this from the carpenter, the eggman.
I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
So I am the son of a carpenter. He made sure his genetic copy knew John Lennon. I am the son of a mother who comforts. She made sure her baby boy fell asleep peacefully. I am the Walrus. I am not a villain. But I have had more than my fill.
And no one will know.
So let them figure this one out mister “give peace a chance.” Ooh, you’re so cool with your “philosophy” and “philanthropy” and Asian wife. I’ll find peace. A piece. When I sleep and she is scratching my back.