oh, please, i can't stop laughing...
i find it really hard to not find
the ****: simply funny:

plus... i really love to giggle a few
seconds, that morph into
minutes, and later morph into hours,
and then sometimes become
days...

i love seeing america burn...
much more exciting than watching
siberia grow cold...
you have to admit,
watching steaks fried the status
of rare, while watching hot-head
american argue isn't
entertaining, well:
see you at pamplona.

i hate to say this, but modern
diacritics is all about music...
it has to be...
you can only return to diacritical
inspection with music being
regarded: sorry...
and it always comes down
to the boss...
i know, americana *******
around my ***...
you have a dynamic:
it's either
(a) born in the u.s.a.
  or you have (b) human touch
or you have (c) maria's bed...
no, you don't get your little reggae angle,
you don't get your little french tip,
or your trap jazz trip...
give the "man" his dues...
come one...
     give him some inkling
into being human...
          i don't mind it much with the cowboy
boots, and the tacky quake of dancing
to a quaking sunrise...
but at least i can talk you dead
with blues and jazz...
          it's still about thwee shwongs...
i test human touch the prime...
born in the hussain say aye is still
my favourite...
   a country might die,
but the song lives beyond the country's
lifespan...
                 and that's how history is written...
the deaf obliterate the "hearing",
and the blind endear the supposedly "seeing",
the lunatics lead
   the sane, through the darkness of
the most maddening day...
    and we come, in the unfathomed
congregational worth of affairs...
labouring to succeed a sentence of
a fathomable of all deserved affairs of
things: worth quest,
to be mustered,
   in the least commanding role,
  in the least expecting "churn" of force.

diacritical demands, thus, rested,
upon the testament of indicating musical
tastes... well... what a grand advert of hopes,
aspirations, and correctly applauded concerns...
let us have the little we can also
claim the much,
    and continue the struggle with
belittling: as something to never allow us to shrink,
and make ourselves state:
what is little is to be a little of what is in
a hyped-up be...
            but what truly is? what it is
"to be"? the belittling of what could be!
and that is a question:
that remains as a question alone,
   and never a testament of tested potential...
rather, a question asked: but never answered:
potency per se,
       a potency of a question per se,
   that remains a question per se,
  since there is no answer per se to stop
the questioning; hence the overly keen
   answering continuum... which, to be exact,
breeds the atypical laziness americanum...
     hard to find a basis for life
when we all have the answers answered,
and no originality of asking questions anew:
hard to live with americans,
since there are so few questions arising
to make the ?, worth much more than the i;
typical americanism.