jesting at the marble staircases, approach the first, the second, the third, with some sort of head held high, with a body painted head to toe, holding a stiff upper lip, raised brow, this is what you came for, this is what you planned all along, to dance the ***** dance across the sacred, to leave some kind of art, the ancient art, all over the constitution, marbles in molasses, forever more making music for the horror villains, who haunt for redemption, who haunt for their pride,

and the point of the story is to be reunited, twisted, as the village burns the people become more and more suspicious, too many stories, the superstitions, spawn across a canvas, held high at talks with tall chairs, tall chairs, the tallest chairs, and microphones, and everyone is a cowboy

who is haunt, and who pales, who feels the repercussions of curse?  of cameras flying overhead, something new to be found or said, practicing this and that, entitled to the wild, entitled to the flesh of story, running so deep in the veins, santa clause wearing a veil and his green eyes suddenly turn him a troll, his sleigh lead by dreadful red

its a circus, my friends, and I long to think myself a ring leader, with a whimsical voice of Shakespeare, longevity, to live forever, while the haunts pluck out their tunes on their strings made from cowhide that brings about the pale, pale moon, sinking teeth into fish, and finishing with a gist, a clever remark, that forgiveness is good but not a given, finish with flesh, the cowboys make their music, and the haunting continues

on and on and on