My good friend and poet Adam Horovitz wrote this. Lovely.

I want a house in the middle of the street.

Like Suggs.

I want a little birdhouse in your soul.

there once was a bloke called donald
a bit crazy and definitely not bald
the yanks loved that he was rich
and his wife was a quiet lady
so they voted him in charge of the world

Jack built mine.

In the beginning, there was Jack, and Jack had a groove.
And from this groove came the groove of all grooves.
And while one day viciously throwing down on his box, Jack boldy declared,
‘Let there be house!’ and house music was born.
I am, you see,
I am the creator, and this is my house!
And, in my house there is only house music. But, I am not so
selfish because once you enter my house it then becomes OUR house and
OUR house music!’ And, you see, no one can own house because
house music is a universal language, spoken and understood by all.
You see, house is a feeling that no one can understand really unless
you’re deep into the vibe of house. House is an uncontrollable
desire to jack your body. And, as I told you before, this is
our house and our house music. And in every house, you
understand, there is a keeper. And, in this house, the keeper
is Jack. Now some of you who might wonder.
Who is Jack, and what is it that Jack does?
Jack is the one who gives you the power to jack your body!
Jack is the one who gives you the power to do the snake.
Jack is the one who gives you the key to the wiggly worm.
Jack is the one who learns you how to walk your body.
Jack is the one that can bring nations and nations of all
Jackers together under one house.
You may be black, you may be white; you may be Jew or Gentile.
It don’t make difference in our House.
And this is fresh!

Who’s in the house?

So begins his reign
Strange orange buffoonery
Hair of Shredded Wheat

[video]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jwm1xkExlG4[/video]

perchypanther – Member

So begins his reign
Strange orange buffoonery
Hair of Shredded Wheat From the man himself:

My whole energy,
who cares? We do a building.
It doesn’t mean anything.

My good friend and poet Adam Horovitz wrote this.

Bloody hell – that brings back a memory. Around about about 25 years ago I was driving through somewhere in rural /small-town Gloucestershire and stopped at a junction and there was a poster of a poem by Adam Horovitz pasted to the wall.

Can’t remember anything about the poem other than liking it, thinking it was great that it was there, and thinking it probably wasn’t Adam Horovitz from the Beastie Boys.

it probably wasn’t Adam Horovitz from the Beastie Boys

This was my first thought 😆