Floopy foosh oon the doockside pier

Floppy fish gasping on the dockside pier, I'm a fisher without peer, wiping down the tables with a moistened rag veneer. The killer cleavage of that woman, and what’s she doing with that man? Redwood sturdiness, café flirtiness, the best dressed-up comment to impress the guests, when salty pretzel snacks don't pass the test—it’s a jungle out there my snake-flake favourite mistake heart breaking out in sweat shake faker. Whizzled, woozled unto the hip-check heart attack illegal knee on knee symphony; frock, sock and chopping block, smockwearing clockmakers tick tick tick from Bell’s Palsy, and Admiral Halsey was a good song by Wings, and the first time you read this'll be the only first time, and after it is analysis and meaning and never again enjoyment unless something sticks and then it's the secondary joy of psychic anticipation. But never give yourself a name or number you can’t live up to, like when I was 11 and I wore 99 on my back and I don’t think I scored one goal that year. And who walks in and who walks out--and why are you afraid, not of being alone, but of appearing to be alone? Because we don’t want people in the bathroom when we’re taking a dump; we don’t want to ride an elevator with anybody we don't know. Dristan revisited, Tylenol inquisited, miles of paper statutes replaced by metrical digitization, pulmonary artificial respiration, the resuscitation of resurrection theories, and clown seltzer-spray water-bottle instruction manuals--talk about overkill. Peony pot shards and card shark lowlifes, crowing strife and advocating oversimplified reductionist solutioneering, to marginalize and eliminate bureaucratic waste, and for slippery civil servants the public is enemy number one, oh the tiresome endless agony of democratic debate!