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He’s a werewolf with a silver tongue. He’s the seventh shot in a six-shooter. He’s a prehistoric anomaly tethered in the backyard with nothing but a bass guitar and a dictionary. He’s arrows in a quiver tipped with alternative grooves, theatrical tendencies and hyper-rhyming poetry. He’s the old and the new locked in a passionate embrace and a lovers’ quarrel. He's a hive of ideas and a flock of nonsense. He's writing his own bio. He's Merry-Go-Hound.