The Frontman of a Band Called Joe

... and the feedback from the microphone was unbearable. I asked it how I looked but it could only offer critcisms. We walked into a mirror on the ceiling and our reflections did the same, but the ceiling was a party, and the mirror was a street. An easy bake oven fed the guests and the host left her lipstick on the mouth of the gun barrel of monkeys with dyslexia are hanging from my every word. Oh, and how they sang.