hornering the glapdoodle mort

pot-hatted, the green-fringed darlomook danced the cherubim from out the heavenly clavichord. justice, that grey miser, eeps out a strained discounting wonder, eh? there’s a wicked purle on the horizon. it’s called tempestuous odor and there’s not a soul in all the ages who can smell that whiff of… yah, that’s the ticket.

all aboard the halotrain. what the spikes and weavers have to tell us, no one knows. there’s a scattershot of buckles flying through the air–so don’t forget your monkeyhats.

the circles are excalating their vibrating spin and shards of heaven are flying everywhere, to that high-pitched whistle. who’d have thought that sound was pleasant, once upon a time? so the best bet is just ride it out, let the monsoon rage and then when the eye floats over us all: scoop up the flotsam that glisters to our eyes: A keyholed tin clock with a daisy pair of eyes for hands; all the uncles dancing on the head of a pin–all 53 of them; a fifteen by forty-two foot painting of scarpathia’s left ventricle; hoops and heaps of buttons and bonnets and bootcicles and booterys and beavers and blintzes and barbarypirates and beedles and buggers and bitters and blow; a grand experiment down at the Venusian Tunnel of Love.

All these things and many more than could ever be created or imagined or ticked off on a ledger. These are the things worth scooping up when the eye passes over us all and the storm swirls around us–just picture some fingerpainting with one blank spot on the page; all those vibrant colors of the rainbow. No pastels for me, thanks, I’m taken!

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