Cut the rope and let the dramatics hang out with the only
society that remains undiscovered, it's not unforgiveable nor is it quality to
the eyes and ears of the hoggish seventy three thousand eight hundred and fifty
four, they have mouths to feed and murky waters to cross in knee-high boots
that transcend the facetious garrison and all his ridiculous qualms on the
matter of garden state economics or practical barometer mischief or yuletide
spandex sharing or anything of that unfortunate ilk that still remains
unprepared for the trained eye and all its shivering lip syncing for the sake
of the moon cult.
The
sky has long drooping sentences that it sprinkles all over the clouds in order
to ascertain the very nature of toppings so they can simplify the equation to
within an inch of its hysterical existence, much like the time we went down to
the grove in order to swallow the daylight hours with a side of mustard and
cheery cherry sauce that refute my masochistic attitude towards marriage and
all its unmerited dalliances before the Crunchy King of Martian Depravity or,
as we have learned he is called throughout the many-headed cosmos, Mr. Thank of
the Prussian Mythological Might and Lurking Club.
Bells
are withdrawing from the supplement by the dozen so as to teach the higher ups
in our shuffle snake society that nobody ingratiates themselves to the gods of
any culture, they merely watch us in the shower and wonder where the lengths of
hair come from and how we could possibly know to plat them or bind them or use
them to choke our beloved little ones or utilise them to prise the advent from
the fingers of a crazed opportunist like that chap in the gilded trouser pockets,
the one with the pipe up his bum and the nuts in his cheeks.
Myopia
is the answer to all the problems that have plagued humanity since the start of
the upper crust revolution of revolting potato husks and maitre dez hearts,
while all the time we are acting distressed in order to fit into tidy little
tick boxes with the notations scattered around them higgledy piggledy without the aid or necessity of milky breasts
a mile long and sawn-off quizmasters whom you can never get to put their finger
away out of concern for the children who might take offence at the slightest
organic provocation or loophole agreement or some such travesty that besets us
all on the East Coast.
It
takes a brave dais to drag the lake without warranting sexual tension from the
otter people from somewhere underneath the bridge and it's trolley dolly
insistence on being a part of the video games that nobody ever asked them to be
in, in the first place, that was the bell who asked for that and I don't think
anybody would question its authority when dealing with such matters of an irreducible,
swerving, same sex nature, not from somebody who is known to live beyond the
manor without a sense of immigrant questing to drive the spittoon along the
roadside all by its lonesome.
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