Down on the coaster roasters roasting mostly hazardous crab like toasties.
The sinister shore sure is sinfully scurrying waves of sickly salmon.
A plastic bear is right there on the table top cropping hair and knocking the rocking chair and getting some egregious glares.
Alone at the subset of the collection of dubstep in the heave of beautiful beats. Awash in the heat of this cantaloupes jeep a flourish of a Hammond organ bleets.
Bees knees set in trees to pounce on unsuspecting flowers who rest in the bower of the shower of rain coming from a cloud so vain it looks like venisons cower.
Clocks are to chime on every rhyme and give a little ditty too, as in this land the time, the time, is given to those who have few.
Absurd it may seem that I do gleem that my land is better than reality. It’s a rugged as such to be as much as any insactifactorally quoth does the book of mirth from which we do quirth:
that’s a different verse that I has read
And find that indeed so it does seem on a mirror of a twinkle of a dragons eye in the night that is fine and the hate that’s divine and everything is equal to zero. The hero of this tale is a very small snail whose name isn’t even on page one.
The tape of gate and the mate who is late and finally demands that we are poets. Gives a present of letters from a far away settler made entirely of broken TVs. A thought does arrive that we are not surprised and do decide…
that’s just a load of lies
So on we put out hat and shout to no one in particular, that it’s a fine day on the beach and despite the presence of plastic bears and overcooked crustation and knees and bees and everything else we can see that it’s high time we got on our way please and goodbye to all you who have had the time to read. (Or listen)