Asleep inside the safety catch, this
swift dispatch will see me buried in my own undying gratitude towards bad
authors. Bad authors aren't necessarily lazy authors, they just choose to be
novelists rather than writers, producers rather than creators. This is a
misgiving on the world's part, the word doesn't like it and we all should know
to which word I am currently referring...it's practically staring right in
front of you with its arms billowing in the rubbery breeze. It's confused so
why not pick it up, shake it and say hello. You are balding after all so why
not become the sexy lady you always knew you should be rather than the frump
your humbled siblings know you to be?
In my dreams I've chatted with your forbears, namely the one with the quiver of armistice. He got it trapped in a door, somewhere near the topmost hinge. I can see it in your smile, you want me to tell all so you can then decide whether or not its worth killing me with frizzy hair still all over your waistline. I long to see a tambourine instrumental again so please hurry up and get the hair pins ready in the craziest of places. You haven't got a clue, do you, old microphone?
This will hurt all the way to the bank and maybe you'd be so kind as to deliver it to the riverside as well before you lay yourself down to rest in a pile of soppy soil. Not a mound, not a portal to anywhere chummy. Say, let's go sailing before the missus gets home and treats us to a broken home movie! I know you have the speed in you from the density of your jogging shorts so let's get out there before here becomes a problem. Such wicked thoughts in our time, in rosemary time. It will break with tradition and other petty articles of clothing. Shot!
In my dreams I've chatted with your forbears, namely the one with the quiver of armistice. He got it trapped in a door, somewhere near the topmost hinge. I can see it in your smile, you want me to tell all so you can then decide whether or not its worth killing me with frizzy hair still all over your waistline. I long to see a tambourine instrumental again so please hurry up and get the hair pins ready in the craziest of places. You haven't got a clue, do you, old microphone?
This will hurt all the way to the bank and maybe you'd be so kind as to deliver it to the riverside as well before you lay yourself down to rest in a pile of soppy soil. Not a mound, not a portal to anywhere chummy. Say, let's go sailing before the missus gets home and treats us to a broken home movie! I know you have the speed in you from the density of your jogging shorts so let's get out there before here becomes a problem. Such wicked thoughts in our time, in rosemary time. It will break with tradition and other petty articles of clothing. Shot!
The canto is a sunny day on the
claws of a Siberian Husky, it splits infinitives left right and centre to
absolutely see what the effects on the populace will be. Most prefer to think
of it as an issue but I just put my foot down and everything is forgotten in a
flash of instantaneous senility. The fire and the animal instinct are
inseparable to me, can't extinguish either without New Romantic tunes whining
in the distant background. They tell me it's just some forgotten star and not
to worry about a life spent in glitter and exaggerated cuffs. I try to explain
to the Cambodian outer reaches of my mind that I'm not dead yet and so don't
deserve such cupfuls of wiseacre wisdom. These gambits are resistant to my
charms but shatter at the first sign of confusion caused by my rocky hip
replacement. The world should really just sit down and cherish my catatonic
howling until such a time as a decently edged silencer can be screwed onto a
gun. Death usually comes to me in the wintertime.
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