shoulders? bwown

WHO is to say what it does when you're looking at yourself, pining for a preen, in from the cold, looking for gold lessons when the trees won't hash? And WHERE does it land, and upon whom, or what type of shoulders, when all accounts have been settled, mettled with, and honk the eerie cry of lassos doing their bidding, tying legs together into pretzels while you lay with your life, or a fantasy of a wife, next to a mirror, pacing Sunday hexes in suggestion or in lieu of those tightly coiled reams of dramatic head games that burly their pillow cheeks during the lid-closing dailies, and the dallying marks of routine? Do you ever fret when wet, not slippery, but sticky with suctions, bunions (i.e.,), sanctions, factions, fractions, maledictions, contra dancers, ionic prancers, Chaucer's or Danza's, vendettas, poinsettias, and wrists amassing, wishful canvassing, Christmas crashing, bushels of passion, rationing the beer, for a second or your hour of court duty appear, smear, leer (my favorite word), (lurid, turd, filthy word); bastard hats, among the cities for of hep cats, sororities not frats, spats, spas, gauze, laws, or tobacco chaws? Are YOU gonna?