Ah the dreary piss-water eyes of England's shadow and top hat toiling forebears... caps doffers kicking shins and tasting to taste of fog in slime 'n' oil dripping down throat in caustic sea disaster memories of olden hearts, it corrupts me. How in those tasteful times I did worry hearts and drive monsters in tribeholes like Salamander.... where the she-gypsies practiced their cold arts of passion and silence and drilled skulls for penance of sickness
The worrying plastic dreamers voided their souls and trawled to a land of caps and carpets.... my eyes! this silence did end with the travel of a thousand times. I was proud of those monsters dicing with the bodies of many, chop chop! Ha ha!
Oh eyes... eyes... This burning mishap did finally treace me. I walked alone for three days, then burnished my hand upon a Magna Tree. I was indeed lost. Plastic man enabled me a prayer, and I was released into Morden (via Bank). In which Southern ways did tip me westwards. Therein, I bought cabbage,cheese, bread loaf, business cards, filofax and crampon and rode my busy body home... teatime slugs, anyone?Chip chip!
I recall the Banyan Tree, where Saldanerii did foster and drool on its tapered madrigals. Jelly wed pour from terrible joins and
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