Curious Luther McGee

(an exercise in shouting)

Sweet cudgels of glory - heaven can’t fool an ermine philatelist. Deny yourself no Pez - least not near the solstice. Please, Captain Kippers - yelp if you need a nutcrackin’. Help with the harvest, in this age of delicatessens. Crack to it, mensheviks, we have a deadline. Bossanova under the bridges, and kiss hairsalon Salomés with lipliner. Dirigibles in the moonlight? Consider me a volunteer! Hosanna to Vesuvius, or truth or dare with Destro. Populate my bandwagon because I hibernate no more. Oil fields? Small wonder we flame high!

Okra intrusions - shrimply insubordination? I scoff at the infestation! I want clean decks for suntanning! Where is my wigwam - I have to urinate. Grim grow the gazpatcho chefs. Jellied are the German gargantua, and noodle-necked are the pastamakers. And this is a prism populace, and this is meerkat la-cucaracha? Fie fie - I fawn for no one but Dr. Phil. I fake nothing for my patron saint of gruel.

Have we no wine? And who drinks all the Fanta – the phantasms? Shibboleth till Kwanza, I’m spent of phlegm and spork-prone till I drool. Although you’re my mother’s mirror-image, you stink of catcher’s mitt nonetheless; of armpit and pus-of-zit. But I love your squid pro quo and I like your tat for tit.

Jezebel. A model girlfriend? I can’t answer with clean face or rapier-wit or straight-laces or baldpatedness. Who can curl a cucumber, something so vegetable and straight? Ah... Curious Luther McGee, he is gay times three, but I'll never grow tired of being me.