Dear The Flaming Lips

Re: She Don’t Use Jelly


In response to your rather splendid neo-psychedelia enquiry, yes, my ablaze mouth entrance lining friends, I do realise that (oh, oh, oh) everyone I know someday will die.

It is, in respect of this inevitable expiry awareness observation, my sad duty to inform you that the girl you know who thinks of ghosts, may well be doing so based upon her aspirations to see your premature and accelerated manifestation into one, courtesy of her lethal scorched bread toppings.


Not unlike unlike old ''T.V. cop shows'' (as you say in America) whereby the murderer will shake the powdered poison into two glasses of whiskey but leave theirs unsipped, one finds it extremely alarming that the unnamed breakfast preparer appears to just make you toast without partaking in any herself.

The shady host’s unconventional choice of savoury spread (which, contrary to your assertion is a jelly, in this instance of the petroleum variety), although ironically a proven antidote to enflamed lips, can spur abdominal cramps when ingested in generous helpings if a spoonful weighs a ton, possibly resultant in one leaving this world if combined with pre-existing medical conditions.

We therefore suggest that next time you find yourself offered a waxed wheat germ morning meal by this young lady, you either state that you are not hungry, or that you have bought your own snack (''Here It Is'') in the form of the dubious hair dye agents of yet another of your eccentic acquaintances, a bag of tangerines

I remain



Derek Philpott

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