So stomp like a hungover dinosaur, do the Stalin shuffle over bodies ( in the singularpringular in this case, Josef) - one impaled on a nailbed left on a shelf, flatter than a swizz Schweppes, or pressed flower some cuckolded colonel relinquished on the Eurasian steppe. For you tread on my dreams. Or at least their autumnal smithereens, crackling like a staticwauled chorus of Karma Chameleon, now you tread on my red, gold & greens.
& any dark green shoots of maturity, red & gold corolla of survival's beauty protruding from the shooter turned inonme (as if some flowerpower intercessor lovemugged the buttonithole@endofthebarrel, schmoozemissiled an armistice with the *******, me-shaped gap where no magisteria overlap) would be just another humble hardwon holding con, settingmeup like an unassuming dawn the Day Of The Bomb. Feeling all the more wretched for that sweet breakfast of Frosties & water for one, before a glimmerofhope nuclearbored me like the Bomb, another home invasion of unrequited love discomboburaping me of the normalcy of nice isolation & neat avoidance.
I have engaged private security firms in my every Englishcountrygarden. I've cemented broken glass atop the rainbow. If there is even the remotest chance I might fall in love with you, get lost.