I have been informed by a young lady, who blushed excessively, that at such times she does not even know what she is saying.
Don’t rub another mam’s rhubarb less you trying to get erected to the hall of flame, or perhaps appear in the boordrooms of our nation and in the boredoms of education. From the breedrooms of jejaculation a fierce yawn penetrated to the wall street journal, and so began the frantic search for a fruitless poet and a one man-woman band.
Blame it on the vulgar man who scratches his head when perplexed, whose eyes are like boiled codfish when prostrated by confusion, and who suffered extreme incontinence in Tierra del Fuego when he couldn’t get a good two-bit shine. A saltcellar sailor whose barque was worseoff than his byte, he enjoyed a close casual relationship to a family of primates.
Coming of age, as he was bound to eventually, he married Miss Knancy Night, the discoverer of the identical snowflakes, what a beautiful pussy she was, she was, although they — the snowflakes — were different from any others. Their children were among the survivors at Bhopal. They had been better off to be fatalities and be compensated with a color tv set and a fully reclining naugahyde loveseat; survivors were only able to trade their native art collections in on videocasette players.
I’d blow my alma matterhorn on the whole darn shootingmatch, but my lips been hermetrically sealed since that spell of loose vowels in the library, when some single mother was swiping toilet paper to make ends meet. She was scent up for being nine months overdue. She faced 88 constellations of charges pertaining to the bulges of credit in her hip pockets. Speaking of which, I’ve got some new keys in my pocket tonite.
Did you whom are still alive hear about the trapeze artist who graduated into a human cannonball? Her selected writings swelled in the rain and burst her perfect bindings.
Is love a memory when no one knows where death goes? Apply some atomic balm to the grey nagging matter. And finally face up to the so-so biology of spring. We’ve got a life and death situation in the bedrooms of our nation.
After yr autopsy who knows but if you’ll be found with a tuner in yr brain? And all yr wonderful predictions may be thrown off kilter, even yr brilliant discovery that Humpty Dumpty didn’t fall, he was pushed. I think he was pushed, therefore I saw it on tv. The hands of a kerosene cowboy were keyboarding it across a continent. There was an internationally redeemable coupon, payable upon delivery of the very shell of the man. General Dynamics passed the order to the Kentucky Colonel. Spooks when spoken to. May you rock well, my boeing little one.
Even Steven was found to be the odd man out, what with his thirteen authenticated arms and enough joints for fifty fingers. He could prove, by the bare process of elimination, that it’s best to put your privy on the path past the woodpile when jacking over the jilted throne.
I guess we won’t be getting into that. Her pommes won’t be released till fall. The railway hiring policy recommends hiring a man who farts, for he eats his lunch fast. And to all you alls, south of the 49, remember to keep a body bag in your glove box. Cause up here the astronomers can’t decide whether to shoot the stars from the old dump site, or to gaze skyward from the new suburban graveyard.
When the saints came marching in, the drummer’s head was as round as the harvest moon, but the shadow he cast on the national black-and-vue velvet was as rough as the old stone face, captured by Ansel and Gretschl in the pawpawpawumpkin patch.
Behind the pompadoor, sabian cymbals were sounding the woks of life. Dance by the light of the moon.