I want to dutch with your dinner
I want to take you half way home
I want to crawl up on you baby
For a little cuddle-snout
Huddlin’ with your meowth
Talkin’ dirt in your snog
honey coughing LAzy smog
Not always hazy” spoke a sainted mog
neither man nor god nor dog, upon me travel’s still
“though lovely there, living in Mills, but there are earthly demons.
Perhaps not heaven’s delights.”
He walked on his way after giving us the pamphlet.
It spoke of a Heaven on Earth,
That was enumerated in our atoms, not designed, more imagined,
Sitting here, my little butterflies began to flit and float and fly away
And everything’s stillborn blue
And beautiful, North of The Wall.
Underground: A black pit, viewed only by the Drow, beaten back by a… And on and on.
Was he pitchin’ fiction or religion? I wasn’t sold but it had a cool design so I didn’t throw it right away. You know, these days, riding my bike I feel it start to break, sometimes I listen and I hear a crack in my teeth and they crumble, my infrasctructure that cut out underneath all this corruption, my body, like health is a new thing, Sleeper finds smoking and red meat is perfectly healthy. Woody Allen was the last chipper chaplin a paragon’s feet swept into the poor I felt demmie-whoppers were at least half as much fattening- they had to be.” Believe me Subconcious Prattle Magazine definitely has a way with words sometimes but it’s a little akin to panhandling for gold.
Let these be legendary pants
That kept me more in than out
I walk into a bar pants with them on
Always leave without
Oh my this is a terrible limerick.