In the lean years, he waited on tables, even ate live insects for small change. But the tide turned for Moe Lamprey. In 1967, he was king. The king of a small country. A country so small you could walk out onto your front porch and not even notice the weasels burning on the fresh clipped Kentucky Blue.
O, Moe, was king, and if you wanted to drop a pin and hear the noise you could, but you had to sew a brussel sprout to the bridge of your nose first. So there.