by gar yiminy!

In a bit I’ll quit and thin minks will shuffle in and rinse my mouth in this the shouting month; that loutish trout I went out with, I called it quits with him and went for someone slimmer. She cultivates her smirk, an alleyway lurk and parkinsonian lurch, a dreamer and a crutchmaking standalone, halfway between angel and jerk.

Mulberry meadows are best to tread in, dressed in yellows and sighing southern hellos and obsessed with St. Mary Magdalene’s halo, a harlot turned saint; her fever is one hundred and five - two degrees from not being alive - but everyone she knows is having a baby and she's allergic to unrequited love and the dancefloor is shiny but empty because she hasn’t learned to jive.