I was 5.
Bobby, was riding some heavy dirt.
We did not know each other, until last night.
Is this the 28th degree of separation – no shti, as in totti rottidel madri…wow, what a small world. Well, time for the stop.
Thank goodness it is not making the rain.
Phat knew how to make it rain back in the day, but Big Brother has outlawed rain.
It is clouds of compliance, and rays of respect and love for the better woe.
Man, that was some fuckin’ apple.
Still, somehow it appears as though there is anything more than walking to the corner, and talking shit with a brotherman, or a fine sister on the edge or on the sledge, hammerin’ with the same bitter truth that comes from east European Slavic nations, or potatoe based calves of gorgeous silky stilletoed sadness – how the fuck did this bill get this high – oh poor rabbit, this is but the hole – that is the carriage.
(click your heals here, and look for Jesus – he shaled gas for your freedom)
“That sir, is a snake.”
*sigh, now what…the world is so boring without this*
(well, often many of the other nights come, and make me smile, glad to see music still notes itself along the bars that are quartered and counted – metrics of mental rails following high tee, and leathered bags…oh the fine touch of Egyptian cotton…)
For this ode, a glass of Glendullan(d)(sp-ml-fu) 36 – so fine, of course you can scotch, scotch, bo, botch, banana fana fo fotch, fee, fi, foe, motch = SCOTCH…
To the cleaners of the traps, of the kind that spare no grease – thank you for the crispy goodness that will kiss me under the mounds
For the lights, and the wires, spread like the veins of time across a flesh clock, ticking even now as you watch this (*really, you want to watch this…)
To the little baker, on the street, with the chestnuts, hoping for a better life than a bombing brass monkey on a sunny Sunday afternoon, with of course, John Lennon playing chess using vountry nuts of different denominations, and Einstein – he has on the same suit – HST, well yeah, he is off and setting up the lines, with some kind of Badger pester Pete Tong, who still thinks the world is over, without the use of his cents etc.
Silence can echo alliteration.
All it is, is a ration.
Vowels, so clean eh?
I mean, that would be a great name for a soap no?
You want to be like the other 21.
I mean, close to a Hoser Friday night count no?
Sure it will be missed, but not the reason it was written, don’t really know what is.
Will finish this, and have hundreds behind.
Just never wanted to send them off.
Thought it was a little too Stern.
More of an aft, abide kind of dude, unless we are talking about her ankles, or her hair. Kind of key points, breasts are part of the ankles – never as why I connect the two, it may scar you, so suffice to say, that combination is the chowder.
The blend of noxious love and libation, delivered by fairies and pixies, on unicorns and with bags of gold as a welcome treat.
Grab all you want, don’t give a shit what your color is, what you age is, what your nationality is, what kind of music you listen to, how you group yourself, how you look at others, what you eat, and what you watch, how your farts smell, and what your teeth look like.
You see some fairies and shit with pixie dust around some hot ass and some kind of carriage, you best be looking around for your bearings, because son – those be some great buddies.