They
wanted a butler with a hand in the butter and butter churning process with a
steady twist of an unsteady crank. Some of them wanted to vouch for an iconic
televisual experience instead but the investment just wasn’t practical and
besides they had too many fetching suits not to use them. The world did what it
could to ignore their pleas and please and thank yous and letter qs but the
dietary quail was just too odious a scent to refuse. They were helpless and
dying of shame in the face of a blue-veined lawman. The system has undergone
several unique developments including unicorn enlargement and prattling on
about Miss Nancy, whoever she is in this greyscale backdrop.
This
is how the DVD collection collapsed on them, this is the story that comes out
of avoiding the main plotline with tact and pomp, this is the racy images that
are fed into the blinks of an early learning child. They must develop
correctional facilities for children such as these, kiddies need to be debugged
and turned into rectors purely for the attendance of quality dinner parties.
The conversation must be sparkling and nope to everything else. They are out
for the best hard copy of the Finnish Dictionary as soon as all back’s are
turned and all sweaty dress straps are sliced off with cruise cutter scissors.
Everything must be beyond the lap in the same way that nothing must collect
£200 and $200 to spend willy-nilly on knick-knacks and undercarriages. The air
marshal has his facts straight and has every intention to wed you to that
Finnish Waiter over there. It’s a complex, a dramatic difficulty for
encouragement’s sake.
You didn’t get the job of course. You grabbed your car
and you shouldn’t have done it without firing up the spittoon or channelling
all forms of qi straight through your chakras. This manacle ruffles the rictus
right up and into rickets of perfect diamond formation. See how they fan out
for the air marshal and his impeccable skill. He has eaten more than his fair
share of trade issues, swallowed them back and gargled them down with mouth
water and salty roofs. You’ll get over it like you always do; you’ll tie up all
the sticks in the house and bundle them into the back of your bandwagon just to
shout timber at every passing case of simpatico. You’ll get your own way and
the rich bitch will forgive you like an Australian in a women’s magazine.
I, on the other hand, must remain the grease paint on the
clown’s face, the bowler at the stump, the long and lonely party favour which
everybody supersedes and nobody can count on. I live a charmed existence of
spiteful hand gestures, they have become my overcoat and doused in the flame of
a thirty-year-old holy man’s blessing. Radiation tongues are blistering my
babyish beard and the moustache hasn’t even been touched. Is God trying to send
me a message? Might or may.
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