The eggs of bad echoes lay sugar in the meme of Ronald, playing power pajamas in oak stockings, readying a Ted or two of discush, but really only hopping, a dumb jackrabbit at the porta potty by the shiddy bus stop, legs leaving lingering hexes and crossed double wide with despair of air passage, killing the tulips and wrinkling ex-girlfriends' nasal faces, and man oh man, okay, it's okay (FB-likes and eyes, federal bureaus, shit you love to be watched while you're talking, no?) and lemme look, I gotta hafta donsomethingsilly, but my and your or our, dour counting contests, leave oats on a poorly rendered trail title, squeeze buttons pressed and if, when, classing out ever occurs, the bunny of all humans (that's all of us, when we spy and spray) just leaves a garbage fart behind.
<ø))~~~§<
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