Yes well, a bit of a diatribe. You run around and tug on things and some people (well, most, to be honest) don't care, nor do you about them: that's just the way amongst men and minstrels and ministers and administrators. I live in a spectacle of a place where Floridians come by summer in the droves, and by winter, leave us with empty hulls and husks and the quiet rot of Vacationland. So I make these videos and sounds and run-arounds as a template for tossing at their shadows and laughing at all the pretty pieces the broken glass makes. There you are, ol' boy. I wish though that you and me, we were kin.
An unabridgement in hen pox, sturgeon-hex, tom-fools, Bader, tossing it all in the air, and talking into a tape recorder when you think nobody is looking...
Crank Sturgeon
There are times when the old hen would take her pecks away and leave us for fools. I wasn't hep to the plan, but sacks of beaver-caps and stovepipe wipes had us fearing less-so; the endangerment of an encroaching aurora-roar, oaring its way up side-paddles and wires slung low over the Mampa River were good enough to keep us satiated, satisfied, and bladdered. Hopes were that the bird (named "Dick" in heather-booted Florentine wastes of tongue) would keep on with the lay, excitedly hamming out those ovarine sequences like a bunny dribbling its m&m's all March-long, but ach... too fetid a fantasy to be true! Treasons and season switches, well, the rest is on your own goad.
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