Ahh-he-che'em ack-ahem. Sorry, let me clear my throat.

One day I set out galavanting, looking for a high.
I meandered to the ocean shore and set a lively stride.
My eyes were wet, my heart was light as I looked out at the splendor,
About that time I heard a rumble, a sudden yearning for a chicken tender.

I galloped to an eatery in hopes of a hearty meal,
But had a measly handful of coins, so I opted for a deal.
The only place I found tat would accept my sum of coins
For anything sufficient enough to satisfy my *****
Was a gritty place called Taco Bell, but it was my only choice.
The cashier was a voluptuous dame and my trousers became quite moist.

She said to me, "what will you have?", in a shockingly low-pitched voice.
I was taken aback for a moment, but stuttered, "a number six, I think".
"Comin' right up honey", he or she said with a wink.
I just smiled shyly and went to go fill up my drink.

My food was finally ready, but I was a bit wary,
I could't tell what was in my taco - squirrel, beef or canary.
My hunger pushed me through my fear and I finally took a bite,
Although skeptical at first, my taste buds did delight!

I had finally finished with my meal and was satisfied and full,
But down below my abdomen I felt a mighty pull.
I had no time I knew at once and dashed to find relief.
The single men's room was in sight, but who should be a thief?!
The cashier with the arousing bosoms had stolen my salvation...

As I stood there in that Taco Bell I felt a curious sensation.
When normally I could have held it, a complete bowel prostration.
While the **** was pouring out like a broken sink,
My mind started to wander and I couldn't help but think,
*If the women's  room is out of order, I wonder which she/he has,
A set of both, a meat-locker or a **** and nads?

A dark visage expressed
In jest,
But rejected and chagrined.
Unable to conceive a rescind
Of the psychosis
Precipitated in youth by a subtle hypnosis.
A dogmatic view,
Unable to break through
This vision
Of correct cognition
Instilled in all to prevent remission
Of the human condition.

Alpine stigma, the horror of incessant pine borers. Life's enigma seeping deeper to the core, to some a chore, to others a leisurely tour. But we want more and more although sometimes less and less is best. To our behest, it would seem that our collective ego, a thing that is supreme, will reap all the earth has to sow, yet still wants more and still it grows. Is this not nature itself? Are we not but one collectible doll upon the cosmic shelf? The greatest threat to imbalance is nature, a course correcting force, meticulous in checking universal nomenclature.

Slipping through rhyme and reason to feasibly change the seasons, we eat the morals of our peoples chieftains and horde the gored crown of misbegotten dreams, choking down muffled screams of rotten abhorrence at the center of our beings essence. Our minds are not our own, but we condone the ill because the foreign mind is a relentless drill that plants it's seeds deep and in supplying hindsight keeps us dull and meek. The food is the weak and the strong do eat to complete the endless cycle and compete for success in survival to the hindrance of oblivious brilliance and the benefit of passive resilience.

The beauty of violence
Of motion unbridled
Of stagnant serenity
And silent revivals

Relaxed in a state of absolute calm,
The air of serenity a soothing balm
To ease the imminent struggle ahead
As I sit on my throne of porcelain and shed
The anticipation tugging at my bowels
And out come the mud dogs wearing brown cowls.

Out they come and my tension is released,
In a violent cacophony the silence has ceased!
It has been replaced by a beautiful sound
Like the music of nymphs, with voices all crowned.

The release is a final stinky-sweet ender,
As the *** paper flows my world lights up with splendor!
The sunlight filters through my one bathroom porthole
And the warm rays splay playfully across the hairs of my *******.

This is the moment, ***** all the rest.
Nothing else can compare...a good **** is best.

In the conclave
Of night and day
Gloaming tides
Pull and push
Over the sands
We all walk

With blistered feet
Soles worn down
Yet still we walk
And still it flows
Hot or cool
Over the sands

And the tides
Ebb or flow
Over the sands
We still walk
In the conclave
Of night and day