Recall a
time of no people doing no thing worth a grain of sand. Recall a day when West
was wasted and North knew how to joke. Think of how goodness could have become
good through the process of environmentalism. Remember and remember and
remember grapes and yarns and knives for wishy-washy Thursday.
My masks are
lined across the wall, linked by the prongs of their headdress. The rug will go
up to meet them someday and I will be drinking scotch from a sipping cup
without a bottom. Green orang-utans will tell of how the haunted gates of Grant
will become giant when first the fridges yell in Welsh dialect. Keep a close
eye on their dancing hands in case they should reach for your boogies. Waste
the paper basket and I shall eat my left ventricle: not so tricky for one so
lithe and loveable as myself in a swimsuit. Soap and frogs will tidy my
afternoon and drop the weeks one by one.
Speakers are
speaker when coming through the right honourable gentlemen from the southern hemisphere.
Sixty six Semitic slugs will shunt the
queer king's polar ears. Ironing boards
and cowboy hats will keep the moustache going for indefinite periods of time. I
am timid because of you and because of you I shall not wish for another
hamburger. Where is my domino mask? I must haunt the gynaecology department for
a month.
Itchybackitis
makes me wonder why we are all ultimately volcano volleyballs with nothing but
hashish to keep us down. I wear ties but I am not bald with sticky ears to know
who or what the night yo-yo is. No gloves for Santa's satin satanic sexy turns:
I am disgusted and disgraced. Discus is one of those games that just don't make
sense to yellow-eyed wall people. I don't know, you don't know and nobody would
ever wear pinky-purple earrings.
Triumphant
are we who eat the art the day-to-days shit out. Red superheroes are still red
superheroes without the nine-inch leather capes. Prissy crossing to tepid
cardboard for the white-faced, pale-faced son of a gun is a glad pastime for
some who do not wear hole punches in their yellowing hair. Round like bubbles
burst in aquiline nostrils. Menace me with this long hair that curls in all the
wrong ways. I am so grim when eating your desserts. Sleeveless and joyful are just
not a way to live these days. Nipples of naked light are the final aim of the
abject many. Baskets and baskets of little lights and nobody more.
Reasons are
ideas that somebody hadn't thought up for a bad way of thinking. Drink some gin
and horn in on the classics with devilish action in mind. Be determined to ruin
the world in a justifiable manner that leaves paper chains in your wake. Doors
don't need handles, handles need the doors. Posting the answer is a safety
precaution and a fine way to make friends with men in shorts. Winter is a
yearly occurrence that no-one expects again.
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