Reigning
like what someone would have thirty years ago lets the husky voice dear see
beyond the meaning of up and even goes as far as to process commands in German.
Saying I love you to glass is like a ceiling fan blowing feathers straight out of
the showy pillows, the ones that are left out to cover guest tushes. Respect the
somewhere and somehow and all of the lurking illusions that stand starkly
before saxophonists in their darkest hour. Doublets all round, while the
dreamer schemes of clownish old friends being utilised as the gainfully
employed. The seconds do what they can but WIN OR LOSE is still a middle-aged
woman’s game, the kind that can be dithered over without losing or saving face.
Nobody knows much about the bed sheets of the infirm.
And
you are here to be outspoken once again, between the lines of a dying years,
between the limbs of a blessed opportunity smote down in the name of
light-hearted education. Obedience will only create fresh pages, not fill them
any more than the old marcher’s croak or the jibe of his cane. Come along
quietly with your hair delicately cut and measured in ambidexterous centimetres.
Lead me all the way to the Royals and we’ll see what the pretty missy says
about the two gentlemen who seem to be sat on your hopes and dreams
respectively. We’re just as wretched as they, in their sacrilegious t-shirts
and gardener’s gloves. Put away your sword and sing for his supper, that one
right there.
Do
you like chains in the lines of chalk? Maybe the board could intercede but the
girl in the hat doesn’t seem to like the concept of honed diametrics because belief
requires a lot of handy quips and genetic predisposition for debt and horrid
haircuts. Have we done sending Ferris wheels to spondulicks? LET US NOT TALK
ABOUT IT RIGHT NOW. WE ARE AGREED, CORRECT? CORRECT. How often does the little broken
tooth begrudge you with it’s honking delight? Treachery comes from the
slightest slight as emitted by friendly fire and saying goodbye to friendlier
skies. Don’t thank anyone yet, they will simply forget and then probably say
something perfectly ghastly right to your humble face. You decide too much and
you let too much grab hold of that cranium of yours and things won’t stop
drumming with bare hands. It’s the fingernails that hurt the most, that task
the extra minuet.
How
we share, how we share, how we truly devise a fine method of retrieving data
from the cloud just to show off to our girlfriends and hat-wearing faculty.
What we simmer for the sake of love and longing and longitude in hindsight.
Doesn’t it make you let your hair down in a mist of amiss? The hobo community
have many chokes in their hide, many holds to tackle with in their grubby
knuckled ways. It’s a case of share and share alike on board a ship of cretins
and their asthmatic troubled door children.
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