Colonel Mustard: "It's what we call overkill." Professor Plum: "It's what we call psychotic."

In keeping with an emerging theme here on Slumlog, yours truly has ..."re-interpreted"... this classic little ditty (omission of the original 8th verse as a tip of the hat to you Bob Weir fans out there) for the enjoyment of all our readers, imaginary and otherwise.  Cheers! 

They’re hanging postcards in the cellar

They’re painting the walls with blood

The futbol fans are in the kitchen

The waitresses are chewing cud

Here comes blind Joe Daddy

They’ve got him tightly pressed

One hand is cuffed to Immigration

The other is up a dress

And the Arlington Police they're restless

They can’t go very far

As Mike Green and I look out tonight

From Summers Red Room Bar

Mya, she doesn’t just seem easy

“I’m a one-star Sudoku,” she grins

And fishes down her stockings

To pull out full-grown twins

In walks the Professor, he’s boasting

“You’ve got a fine caboose.”

Then someone says, “You’re in the wrong neckwear, my friend.

“Try a hangman’s noose.”

And the only sound that’s left

After he catches his car

Is Mya heading down the stairs

Of Summers Red Room Bar

Now the smoke is getting thicker

The toilets are beginning to clog

Sonny’s sweeping up the carpet

Frankenbrian’s sawing logs

All except for Shawn and Carrie

And the karaoke guy

Everybody’s either stumbling home

Or trying to get high

Donnie Tucker, he’s dressing

He’s eating a granola bar

He’ll power through his hike tonight

To Summers Red Room Bar

Now the First Soprano, she’s in the front booth

For her I feel so proud

At her karaoke debut

She sang inspiringly loud

To her, life is quite dramatic

She wears a velvet bow

Her religion’s her persona

Her gift is her vibrato

And though her destiny insists

She’s bound to be a star

She spends her time indulging us

At Summers Red Room Bar

Dana, disguised as Ruby

With nostalgia in his heart

Dropped in after happy hour

To pass around his art

He copped a look of innocence

As Kelly bought his drink

Then he burned out all the drainpipes

And sped off to the brink

Now you wouldn’t recognize him

Without a cheap cigar

But long ago he held it down

For Summers old green bar

Dr. Stealth, he keeps his world

Underneath a baseball cap

But he blew off all his patients

And threw away his map

His tour guide, some local transplant

Is adrift in a consciousness stream

She’s carrying dead flowers

From a merciless regime

Now he’s stuck in a cave spitting bad seeds

Into a mason jar

Waiting for the last train back

To Summers Red Room Bar

Across the street they’ve pitched a beer tent

They’re giving pints away

The stew is boiling over

On a cold St. Patrick’s Day

They’re warming up Sanford Markley

To soothe him from his fright

Then they’ll make him sing “Cecilia”

Until he feels alright

John Kelly’s reading manuals

On tuning a guitar

Sanford Markley just learned his lesson

At Summers Red Room Bar

Praise be to Hero’s Wholesale

The New Door swings at dawn

While greasy foreign heads decide

What it will hinge upon

Two sides of ducks and cowboys

Are starting to get crude

While servers giggle nervously

And try to carry food

In the kitchen between two worlds

Where frozen burgers char

The waiting is the hardest part

In Summers Red Room Bar

I learned all my letters yesterday

And put them in a word

Then used it to make fun of you

For calling me a nerd

All the people you keep forgetting

I know them, they’re okay

Though you rearrange their faces

Or you look the other way

Right now you don’t seem so good

But you’re calling me bizarre

Tomorrow you’ll be stumbling in

To Summers Red Room Bar