...that I could rummage through your trash all day, baby. And if you think that was trashy, just wait until you've seen my Cornish friend. He's got swim-trunks written all over him. It's like a disease. A disease that just makes you want to know how they do it even more. It's rhinoplasty, baby.
And as if that wasn't enough, here she comes just talking and swaying and whining like she had four or more cares in the world, winding her way through the market stalls. And if cell phones could talk, we'd all be pretty fucked, wouldn't we? Who'd ever get a word in edgewise? But for now it's just swing and swine as we all jostle along to the muzak. I can barely be heard over the ferocious whispering of the flies in my eyes. They can't read my case or rifle through my files, but they can intrude upon my thoughts and tickle my trickle in ways that should just not be allowed. I think I'll just go cool my waist for a while in the shade of that oaf tree and while away the miles that pass by with Marty McFly.
But, there's just something loose in your drawer, isn't there? Maybe we'll find it someday. Until then you should probably waver more over your soup and try to peer into your sip before it hits your lips. You claim to know that the cricket finds more teeth than the ones he's looking for, but it doesn't bother me, no, because I'm safe in Boeotia. And those Mycenaeans will never find me with their huddled lies, for their torpor knows no bounds. It lacks what it should not, so it discovers more than it could without a push anyway.
Anyway, what happened in the summer with those times that tread lightly in all the wrong places? I feel like I fell without falling, faster than I could frame a response to the far flung freedom fearing idiots that yell and scream with no faces! Why do we wonder where these crude creatures wander? Could we not save them a stool at the sinking shrimp and clam shack and wait for them to turn up with their stupid drunken grins or their sleazy slack-jawed, two-fisted attacks? It might not be worth the trouble, but damn it could be great fun for a while to see them prattle and twist and turn round each other, all while sticking to their sadly miscast and glum looking guns!
Well, now I'm off with a rattle to speak with blue teacups. It could have been a white sheet that made me see red, though I think it more likely that I'll just go to bed. So you may walk with a lime and stop on a nickel, but just remember that greater schemes await those that reach for the pickle. And as I bid you adieu for the night with a flourish, beat back their wigs and have a nice glass of warm milk; it'll help you sleep unless you're lactose intolerant.
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