looking out the window barking incessantly lord tennyson, tennyson what do you see? ain’t nothing but death creeping up the hill coming from down yonder for you and for me

he hobbles into the board room moving slow as winter breathes making jokes from door to wall as he retrieves his measuring tape to size up things, like picture frames, this aged volunteer doing good but i resent him right now i visualize my own...

there are nights in kentucky when the woods are too deep and the tree tops scrape the moon, sad harbinger tip toeing over the mountains granny always warned us between tokes taken from her corn cob pipe about dangers that lurk in the darkness of hills...

oh petit escargot long have the french forsaken you but your popularity rises slowly like la lumaca winding through italian emails pouncing, spirited cat’s tail frolicking over Finnish technology delicious little cinnamon bun whose swedes take...

there were the crazed hyenas whose eyes shot through us as they paced mad and crazed sizing us up for breakfast and lunch there were the plume faded peacocks still over-the-top in their extravagance sequestered away so as to not have their confident...