Classy jazz, a hip hop hep cat hecate sprung out of her best bitchin’ brew, it’s just two of the finest italian leather black shoes, once on they glisade away savin’ the day slippin’ up and down and every which way, blackest of night’s casual ninja slacks, coupled with a button down, red, for the blood I’m about to spill, the tea ceremony is over, Rashomon is dead, it’s just an interchanging black belt away from being a black tie affair, and I’ve speckled it all with my night’s eye starry gazing guvna’s vest. This is the Foresworn Crimson Nightmare. Perfect for interviews with vampires, auditioning demons and devilish first impressions.
Speaking of red, I’ve got a spidey suit, complete with my own spidey senses, it’s just a little plaid thing mixed up in an All American way, suiting down to my little red shoes, these scarlet pimpernels dance away the day and climb walls with little more than a squeak, they’re great for fighting crime, kicking in asses and speaking of asses I’ve got some great blue jeans, that booty pop my own brand of mean ice cream, kung fu punching undershirt reads “Shang Hai” but really I’ve Bali Hai’d your sister into a popcorn munchin’ action flick Rick Rollin’ Romance, there’s a bandana here too, from the ancient tombs of Arabi from which all my power derives, emblazoned upon are the words of a thousand hindu lullabies, ten thousand voodoo dances and one hundred thousand soul norse souls. This is Full Battle Array. Just right for casual friday crime fighting, clubbing without seals, and cooler adventures in babe sitting.
Then The Dude and I are gonna chillax on the beach with trampolines and bikini’d bitches, I’ve got a pair of thongs, as the aussies say to stretch upon my feet, there’s a kind of hollywood underwear, but a swimsuit is never far away, I’ve got a cool blue streak winning me glances under my solar shields, from there I’ve got a white blaze of an uncollared shirt ready to whisk away maidens in the sand, below in true blue form is an azure sky to weather whatever weather, whether the weather be cold or whether the weather be hot, it’s not strictly standard, I know, but I have options as a nomad. This is Cerulean Wet Dream, best used in the Sun, on hot days, and wherever you find sand.
Beside you’ll find a distant fourth, for special occasions and the sort, a paisley scottish pickle, to match my skittish scottish skirt, There can only be one highlander kilted in such fashion to match him you’d have to ukulele a look or two from the Tom Petty apocalypse drifting in a sea of gunslingers, this is one 6-string samurai you don’t want to Rock with, with shoes like feet he goes in flashing cold iron and cool steal, you can’t ungrip your eyes from his gaze as he walks into the battle saloon and all the sissies run out, fleeing like flees, til there’s just me and Buford “Mad Dog” Tannen. Whiz pop this un-Shane-ly like fellow and walk up to the bar to buy a good old cold glass of some of that Sarsaparilla. This is the Mountain Goat Walk of Daisies. It will come when the wind is just right, worn like a true scotsmen, it comes upon a nature walk, it dances in the Veridia,
Lastly you’ll find three relics, a leaf of bronze, a uke of oak, and a scarf of sea evening ocean breeze.