Impaled Peach

"My peach ih impaled!" cried Edward Alan Bartholomew, his mouth having been savagely ravaged by the dastardly dentist's drugs. His tongue was no longer of his employ. It began writing and recording tunes, many of which had long been buried under the dense drapery of drivel: "Hey," "Pretty good," "See ya." Now his mouth has a chance to say what it really wants.