Dear Sirs,

My name, is Moses Malone.  I have built a home for boys with troubled teens they can barely even reach.  Now they have a home; they no longer have to roam.  My brother, Moe Malone--who broke his toe when he had no other place to go--now stays at home, spits at cats, plays with cards--ruffled ones.  He hates his bat, but he loves his wife; he chews the fat on Christmas night.  He hates the dark, like a stillness on his heavy heartness.

We are writing to you on the strange occurrence of some loud noises we had heard us. Our neighbors, Al and Betsy, love to play, Who Ya' Fancy?  But Betsy is a bit unfaithful and blurts another's name.  Al feels harshed, he wounds her heart, and he blows them all away.  

Sadly, Tom and Clancy, our two neighborhood Nancys-- who were nightly found among the frowns of the local Bullhead bar, giddy and dancing but ne'er gingerly prancing--were also at this scene.  Now with sad regrets, we'll do our best to kindly put a word for the man who took from our drop-out friends their chance at beauty school.

He was borne of a wayward man, who wandered in and out of lands--he called himself a fisherman.  Out on the coast, he met a host for a one night toast; but in the seaside, he could not hide and all his dreams were cast ashore in waters foul and cross--such was the burden, his name was shortened from that Albatross.  He wasn't great, big, or tall; yet we seldom saw him scowl.  Sometimes with scorn he would meet the morn in search of the home his wife found warm.  He otherwise commanded no attention in on-lookers; nor did we hitherto view him as a villain.  

That is all you'll hear from us regarding this unpleasant matter.  Let us now put down our brows, and care for each others' sons and daughters.