in the east a dry man stumbled through the lush panacea of a dessicated prayer his faith moved mustard gas. gasping for clarity, he spoke a thing no god could answer. he languished in the Eden of empirical Dodos a succulent squab in the oasis of fables. he joined the throng. his shackles were mended. his bonds, repaired.
in the west - a rye bread crumbles along a path to a candy house - to a furnace of blank stares. it waits moonlit and rustic, alas - it's mad and verily cloaked in a thing no ' nothing ' would ask for. it leads to a breach. weary of " who knows ? " a truculent husk of a drought mislabeled. an actual flood. it rankles the vision... it plots despair.
in the north, a gunga din fumbles through the arid Earnest of our Importance. There - we play crude brass. Profundo. at last, we nearly...
and even though we wide spark the char of our scorched affair we vanquish any Southland and the warm sun frosts a glass eye like pyrite.
and polly wants a lacquer, dark enough to maroon...