The
quirks of my doctor lie in the imagination of wiser men than I. No women mind,
they tend to throw nutcrackers at me when its dusty out. They seek
enlightenment and, as far as they're concerned, that means I must be kept away
from comprehending my current social standing within their particular circles.
So that means I'm forced to shovel down mead with heightened salient morbidity
all the while in Sunderland. I'm quite good there, I have a use where the
flamingos live, I'm needed to pet them with pat downs and beak holds. Someone
told me it's a valid career choice so I'm sticking with it like cardboard and a
thousand letters addressed to popular wizards.
It's
the least drawn-out ear of the era and it holds me in level regard in an
attempt to soften the blow of my reduction to all available children and
cleaners. The floor grates are breaking my fall with jokes about the House of
Lords and the mice that reside between the walls there who, in turn, tell tidy one-liners
about us. The vacuum is running and the official illustrated metallurgist wants
to let me outside before the trial begins and I'm forced to see my betrothed painter
be chuckled to death right in front of everyone in class. The misery I'm
expected to feel is conducive to the greasiest dance I can pursue. The singers
are backing singers and the organ grinder is doing just fine with his own kind
in their mutual green tope bag. I'd like to switch the turn into a spin but
it's just not tight enough and I fear reprisals from the tooth fairy that lives
up the lane, if you know what I mean.
Ask
and you shall bask in a residual cascade of moronic energy, the best kind of
experience a man with trousers can have whilst tightening his belt. This is
just one game we play in between fitting lace sleeves to fat galvanised wrists.
They tell you to listen to the man with specs and a guitar but he really is too
cool for school and the boxes are colliding with the stationary he so casually
ignores. At least the award ceremony is coming up, it's warming up too provided
you have the hollow bones to feel it. There are photographs on the dashboard of
the last time it all happened and happened too quickly for anyone to truly
experience it. The word 'ascertain' is making a comeback like a dog's ears
after it's noticed you've noticed it's mess on the ammonia.
Red
matchmakers are climbing out of the works and the saucy BBQs are almost set to
occur but we'll always be here to sing a capella to our teacher's corpses. They
don't even knit after the deed is done: what's going on? The trap is a sample
set in organised stone and I fear that it has caught something within the last
half hour. It's tall, whatever it is and however it goes.
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