Of Hair and Appetites
Rake my mullet, my sweet flaky biscuit in burgled borscht
Dance the ancient polka of panini and char my ventricles with hot poky thingys
Alas, this feeble benign bunion bellows and yearns for Budokan
Fie! Fie! Crispy koalas and smoothies on a stick
Feed my dentured molars with your pleasing plurality of pensive pistachios and pernicious pompadours
Crackle me some, good fellow of Budokan
Crackle some and begone like the crabs of cream.
Urp.
His Master's Wiley Way
"Pooch," he clamored with foul intent of talcum
"Sit and stare, and let not your eyes avert from this bag of delicious lamp."
Complied he, and he stared long like a very thin lake of lava trees
No bark came from tongue, but waggle and Purina bits
The scent...
Heavenly stench of judicious jam jarred in January
The dog, he barked
The lamp sat, lit and lascivious like an evening with cattleprods
"That'll do," he spat.
And he spat again, softly, serenely, psychotropically.
Yea, he did do it.
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