Monday, March 9, 2015

"Monkies" is misspelled




(Australians are Evil)


I want odd and greatly nasty things: monkeys that deliver me opium; dogs that dance with turtles; primates that ride greyhounds for sport or pleasure; monkey breeds to either post or play, and become popular. 

Monkey-faced animals that embrace the beauty of the Trifecta.

Most of all I need to harness others.  

50 shades of Greyhound. 


I'm not willing to put any energy, or time, into much of it. Most of all I do not wish to put in energy and time together at once. That is what drains the human spirit, traffic.

To be expected, to commit. 


I want opium to appear before me like an unpaid lottery from the east; delivered on the loud-squealing backs of crazed monkeys, as far as the eye can see. 

A sea of monkeys, a papacy of papaya.


I also have a plan to reasonably exploit lumberjacks in the local area, though they are a very tough people. 

No-nonsense sorts. Happy to gamble, bitter to lose

Their good eyes light up when I mention monkeys riding dogs, though. They have little time for frivolities, lots of patience for misery.

Monkeys on the backs of dogs, for gambling dashes, are three serious matters; not as raising one child to just be kind, negotiating ways through a forest that harbors surprises.

Lyin', Tired, and bear it.

Lumbering towards that. 
I race, and run.


Barefoot growls, dancin' in the moonlight.






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