Somebody wipe the oil from the stone. The bubbling blubber is too thick over the bone. Spare tire. Rubber. But what if I’m four-wheel drive…with enough traction to thrive. I’ve traversed terrain that could **** a ****** of crows. Jet streams and moonbeams guided me home. Cavatappi and pink sauce to thicken my gloss. I don’t need more loss when the grease on the whetstone provides the perfect amount of sharpening. One hundred and eleven shimmering blades on my crown. Every false structure…severed. My enemies bow down. Lapping up the lubrication as my wings are re-feathered.