They say it’s not right, they say I’m not happy.
Some say he’s real, some say he’s relief.
It’s just what you feel, it’s its all your belief.
We’re all here to meet, to be with good friends.
And this you can’t beat, because nothing depends.
This stickman of myth, some legends may grow.
If I have rode with, how best would I know?
His knowledge is ammo, it helps with our fight.
My buggy is camo, we’ll stay out of sight.
The white coats are out, they’re stuck in their way.
To lock our kind out, from land where we play.
We look to McDune’s, for guidance and light.
To help beat the goons, with which we all fight.
The stickman has signs, they are close at hand.
I’ve followed his lines, there in the sand.
I know they’re his traces, I know they’re his aura.
I’ve seen them in places, I’ve smelled desert flora.
See you in the sand Slappy, keep up the fight.
You see now I am happy, and this feels right.
So think what you will, while you ponder my wit.
I’ve spoken my fill, but I aint talking ……….
Here's to you Slappy...
