(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.
.
