Clay in tights a british accent, sires and wenches, on horseback singing merrily along on their quest for the holy grail, I fell off my perch and i am losing sleep over foggy, let's say smokey memories of midnightviewings of the python with guy friends and most recently my sons, you know what i mean, dose she(he) go, dose she(he) go, this parrot is dead, deceased, stiff as a board and the lumberjack song, Clay are you trying to kill us, because I am not dead yet