DROPS OF DISHONOR

all the stuff going on that motel was heating up but the locksmith didn't speak Irish too well & besides he got drunk & robbed the wrong merry-go-round anyway... Sigh Banal as it might seem, it's not how you think but I bet my client would like a virgin monkey's grin because what are gargoyles for after all? Isn't that exactly what an irreligious interregnum denies anyway? & remember, I got tired of having no shirt either because when you hate yourself you can't lose control of your spasms & quips; I know you don't believe me but for George's sake, what's the use of negations galloping under orchids anyway? I don't have to ask to be forgivable but hey, it was like when the dream said I loathe you with such frenzy that you're are in otter disbelief & start to slay your salary & the genius sang & WOW! but the ferns weren't lying then? What the hake? All this rhododendron regurgitating for nothing? Cripes! It's the boss you can't stand that made you kneel & lick the stove & don't you bloody dare look above I can't tell you how many dogs I counted! those are the keys. the keys that smell of mortality and dazzle you afresh with displeasant despondency & diabolical discontent! such is the fate of Sergeant M.; a calamity awaits this traitor's lucid & putrid soul. Oh, the suffering he is about to endure! the rascallion dismembered my owl. the sweet revenge is about to commence. nwahahaha (cavernous laughter) In the wild Valley of Patapufete where the mermaids dream about petulant clocks & only the stiffened boughs break silence there is no solace until the revenge is accomplished nwaha ha ha (cavernous laughter) Sargeant M., is time you pay because you did disobey As my plethora falls from your ice, i am reminded of your smirk The evening ascends in on a great fern wing you cannot escape from your gray laughter as you are robbed of your phenomenal nightmares by a zebra trespassing on a Valhalla only the hippie hippo can save your infamous soul. Voilà ! here he is. Just got our from his cave oh, no the hippie hippo is my perdition! Your maleficent ministrations are strategically coming to fruition! and thus you sip the equations of nightingales & searchlights that mysteriously vanish upon the sins of Mount Chester. Such heights we're not accustomed to. Who wins if the mortiferous guffaw of the wind penetrates your Psyche in such a way that you suddenly start to hate yourself so much that you don't have time to regret the fact that you've been a pusillanimous?