Oblique harps playing. Strum, strum, strumpet, pop it on a crumpet. Pump it. You'll come to regret the seeing of the eyeing up of an Antarctic Land miner, you'll always feel it burning into your flesh and a few of your retinas when you really should be just plagiarising fairytales for the sake of the masses down at the Laundromat. Up to fifty lines of the same old stuff is allowed, provided you write an outrageously flirtatious commentary to stick onto the side. As of now the down is on the bunny, all along the bendy part of the ears. It's a reflexive verb.
They say regret is the paprika of lampoon, that Susan knows all and must know all for us to know or even care much about anything. It's like a run-on sentence that makes word salad into a worldly achievement for the grandiose and plucked to tamper with to their merry heart's content whilst they abate from their communal kitchens in search of better formats for their pudding intentions and wiser staff members to chuck under the red-faced buses until child abuse and apartheid is sorted out and/or gotten rid of without even the slightest recession of educational statistics. We own 20% of train travel because of these pushy tactics, we lose hours with every tunnel and in some patches of the Kent area. Grab both cheeks and get your arse into gear before so much money leaks from the Scotsman's castle. Never say well enough in case you follow a laser sight straight to costumed book clubs and masked reading groups. The coast is worst and has been for two decades.
Our wars divide the castrated and the mugged, the guilty and the drunk, the eighty from the minus eighty. Some of the banks are reclaiming their claims on clamming up, rethinking their experiences in fields of fist-throwing and spectacular chair-smashing. You need to get to the props to do anything about it, to reinvigorate your peachy brainstorm. Careers square off in a square dance. These are eyeballs and have seen enough to melt a microwave oven with Danish dexterity. Susan has her keys in her pockets and those keys don't jangle unless she commands them to. European Union vigilance.
Her husband, Seraphim, works for the Boorish Meritocracy and describes it as bally well grand fun. Many believe him which is surprising because of his natural lack of conviction and inability to air out dirty laundry. He drops tea bags in jars of coffee and calls it a religious experiment that the Sacred Twenty Five Minutes wants to know but hasn't yet seen. That smells pretty rank, most members of Parliament say but they've never been too good at spelling things out with their usual senses. We auctioned off their plush seating and they've been raw about it ever since, loathed our guts and tried to wish them into garters. Fortunately that wasn't one of the challenges presented to us, we had Susan to deal with. She's boss.
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