John Lennon, In His Own Write: No Flies on Frank

To honor the 30th anniversary of John Lennon’s passing, I have selected two excerpts from the much-beloved book of poems and short stories written by John Lennon himself (click here to purchase the book from Amazon). In the first excerpt, John describes a bit about the book. The second, my personal favorite, is a story about flies and a man named Frank.

About The Awful
I was bored on the 9th of Octover 1940 when, I believe, the Nasties were still booming us led by Madolf Heatlump (who only had one). Anyway they didn’t get me. I attended to varicous schools in Liddypol. And still didn’t pass — much to my Aunties supplies. As a member of the most publified Beatles my (P, G, and R’s) records might seem funnier to some of you than this book, but as far as I’m conceived this correction of short writty is the most wonderfoul larf I’ve every ready.

No Flies On Frank
There were no flies on Frank that morning – after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn’t he? It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the bathroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn’t believe it and his blood raised to his head, causing a mighty red colouring.
‘I carn’t not believe this incredible fact of truth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.’ Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clouded his eyes with fearful weight. ‘Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whise father Alec came from Kenneth — through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April — keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeline at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?’

He journeyed downstairs crestfallen and defective — a great wait on his boulders — not even his wife’s battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank’s head — who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look. ‘What ails thee, Frank? she asked stretching her prune. ‘You look dejected if not informal,’ she addled.

“Tis nothing but wart I have gained but twelve inches more tall heavy than at the very clock of yesterday at this time — am I not the most miserable of men? Suffer ye not to spake to me or I might thrust you a mortal injury; I must traddle this trial alone.’ ‘Lo! Frank — thous hast smote me harshly with such grave talk — am I to blame for this vast burton?’

Frank looked sadly at his wife — forgetting for a moment the cause of his misery. Walking slowly but slowly toward her, he took his head in his hands and with a few swift blows gad clubbed her mercifully to the ground dead. ‘She shouldn’t see me like this,’ he mubbled, ‘not all fat and on her thirtysecond birthday.’

Frank had to het his own breakfast that morning and also on the following mornings.

Two, (or was it three?) weeks later Frank awake again to find that there were still no flies on him.

‘No flies on this Frank boy,’ he thought; but to his amazement there seemed to be a lot of flies on his wife — who was still lying about the kitchen floor. ‘I carn’t not partake of bread and that with her lying about the place,’ he thought allowed, writing as he spoke. ‘I must deliver her to her home whore she will be made welcome.’

He gathered her in a small sack (for she was only four foot three) and headed for her rightful home. Frank knocked on the door of his wife’s mothers house. She opened the door.

‘I’ve brought Marian home, Mrs. Sutherskill’ (he could never call her Mum). He opened the sack and placed Marian on the doorstep.

‘I’m not having all those flies in my home,’ shouted Mrs. Sutherskill (who was very houseproud), shutting the door. ‘She could have at least offered me a cup of tea,’ thought Frank lifting the problem back on his boulders

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4 thoughts on “John Lennon, In His Own Write: No Flies on Frank

  1. I wasn’t even 13 when this book was published, but I understood his tongue-in-cheek word use and odd placement of normal phrases. I thought he was hilarious and this is still my favorite. Such a talented and intelligent man . . .

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