Iffenstance it am the more goodly of brain for enduring
At the peltstones and stickarrows of glory-be-to-naked Lady Luck on a platter with a mint garnish to boot
Or elsewise by hook or by axebattle against the deranged tsunami of pestulant no-nos
By the which confrustration to fit the kaput to its snoot. To die? 'Tis six-of-one to nap.
And napping tidy mumble our toodaloos
Upon chestpangs and kilowatt curses
Averse as a hearse to an heiress. Bed me thatwise
I'll church it to a genie. To dead... To bed...
To bedmares in my head. Oy! That rubs me funny.
'Cause in that three-letters' nap what Zzzs may sizzle the aforementioned brains
When they are all for dirt and wormspittle,
Makes us go "Hmmm..."
(pause)That'll be the puzzle
That muzzles the pizzles of incontinent elderblokes in their age homes.
Cuz, dude. Seriously. "Not it" on the BDSM fancies of Baby New Year.
Oppression. Pride. And the other six deadlies.
Gettin' blue-balled by milady. Fat cats
And democrats. And the you-name-its
That get spurned on the yours truly.
Hey, I got a knife.
Let's plug the dike. Who's gonna tote heavies.
And pull hammies and grind himself moist,
If not for deathophobia –
The irrational fear of what-the-ever forever
And never no backsies – that screwtastically pretzels the mind
And makes the royal "we" stick a landing on the high bar
Rather than cross train for the pole vault.
Thus prudence empussifies us
And the grandest huevos
Are Easter Bunnied up in pink and pensive pastels.
And fully awesome shit
Goes down diarrheic
Of forethought. (Whoa, zip it.
Ophelia's got no tan lines. Hottie, come pray for me.)