Life is very short and there's no time for fussing and fighting my friends, so I will ask you once again: Baby, will you drive my car along the long and winding Abbey Road on a magical mystery tour all across the universe through Strawberry Fields with tangerine trees and marmalade skies and cellophane flowers of yellow submarine and green? Mean Mr Mustard, day tripper, sleeps in the park, while in Penny Lane the barber shaves another customer, shaves in the dark trying to save paper back writer - Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? It took me years to write, will you take a look? It's a thousand pages, give or take a few, I'll be writing more in a week or two - I can make it longer if you like the style and I'll send all my loving with love from me to you, so please Mister Postman, please please me, love me do, I need you, help, I need somebody, help, not just anybody, help, you know I need someone. I'll get by with a little help from my friends, Eleanor Rigby, lovely Rita, and Lady Madonna, who don't let me down behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout because, being for the benefit of Mr Kite, the Hendersons will all be there fixing a hole beneath the blue suburban skies many years from now. It's been a hard day in a life's night and I've been working like a dog eight days a week yesterday, it's all too much but it's getting better all the time - we can work it out. I should be sleeping like a log of Norwegian wood, isn't it good, little darling? Here comes the sun - hey Jude, come together right now over me - I'm a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody except the fool on the hill, the man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud, but nobody ever hears him, or the sound he appears to make, and he never seems to notice the sun going down.
P.S. I love you.