Trying to drown the baby was a badly drawn indian.
And Since I'm a cavallieri,
Dressed in polished white boots,
Exhaling pepperminted flirts in a dense air of soot:
I'd probably want to teach you a thing or two,
Of twisting a pair o' shoelace around my slackened throat.
It's true, it's true,
that for all my intents have all failed my fairly spirited tongue,
but in redifnining the quicksand clogging my vain attempts at being more sexy than you,
It is still none.
If I usually find pulling out rosy spines from my tacky larynx,
while listenting to scrambled fragments of a song by John Barry
"Baby, c'mon, let's get married".
But the jokes are just through and through,
Like the camel's eye through the eerie needle of time.
So let it be like a Scythe.
Cutting back and forth, cutting the grass of a brandished new hope,
That is gone,
back and forth,
forth and back,
like a car crash,
gone badder than bad,
and worser than worst.
John Hardy makes the best funeral pies, I have heard.
So when my vest cannot wrangle my heart into stones,
You can come back and lick the sole of my shoe(s),
And step on those ficklish bratty chameleons having their party!
I heard it through the gravely groomed pines mommy:
It surely seems like lotsa fun swimming in Brandy.
For success is a dish best served in the cold,
O' brother! A meat fridge shall do,
And my revenge shall be the success, my success,
In all of the ways, all of the ways:
my vendetta.
