Crimson curtains opening and closing and draping over a cliff say:
it’s showtime
(or lights going on and off).
Let’s go through the alphabet and use alliteration:
Daffy Duck, Porky Pig,
(or other creatures getting hurt tonight).
I hope and dream that their hopes and dreams have plummeted like their bodies:
by the wayside
(or waist-side, or waste-side, or cliffside)—
low tide that surges shores like the seamstress from New Zealand:
those Kiwis,
(or feijoas, or passionfruit).
But passion don’t matter to us folks, and neither do kangaroos! We have our own hops:
Pabst Blue Ribbon draining in sad funnels
(or Bud Light, a treasure).
Second is the best, but Third is the one with that treasure chest in his stupid palm:
not even knowing what to do
(or how to act).
Are you serious, bro? It’s called a shotgun! Shoot it with my key:
pop the cap to release pent-up pressure
(or you can just chug normally).
Choo-choo trains chug, Thomas and me, little plastic wheels in hot pursuit:
I know you can do it
(or my name’s not Percy),
as I violently consume swizzle sticks before the sepia glow of:
That’s all, folks!
(Or is it?)
