that’s what it’s there for so as you meander through the troughs of plebian and lob a few camels into the traction engine of doubt you might spare a diatribe for the demented bucket wielders over the catflap factory as they never get sat down before the bus pulls off where it’s too blinken late for none of that bloody books and stuff but good lord you can’t believe we’re peering over the lip of winter with angels at our tails and all you can talk about is sausages.
for amongst us she pined as was deft o’er the platitudes whereupon we did stumble lest we dropped our faces and she were to trip lightly through the shattered remains of our ignoble trenchant jaws that nay dropped like stones as she parted the air with presence alone.
ere. that’s a single. you’ll have to buy a return. and another single. what do you think this is. christmas?