Tapioca

Tapioca pudding dancers fill my shoes and my shows are finding a niche in the notch, that's why I can't run the gorge like Uncle Mike used to. I know that deep in his heart of taxes he finds the blinds and takes them out but that isn't enough to follow the motion from stem to steps, what with the billowing and turning over and over again. Can't a mellow with shoes and shows find dogs in his whiskers without the wife huffing and purring and blowing the house down? I want to live in a world full of fire and smoke, and I live in a world full of purse snatchers and delegates. It'll be a far fig newton in Hell when I retire to the boat.

Zing!

Zing! The toaster calls to me for more bread. I hurry to the bakery and get some nice red jelly tarts, but no bread. I'll be damned if a toaster is gonna tell me what to do. Zing, it says, like a half baked monkey in a grocer's freezer. I want bread, I eat breat, bread is the bread of life. Carbs are cool. I weigh 280 pounds today. Zing, says my aorta. Gotta lose some weight, and fast. No more red jelly tarts for me, oh, I'll eat half of yours then.

Lies! Lies! Lies!

What could be further or farther from the truth than lies? Furthermore, or farthermore, can the Father be expectorated to sit and sit, with these lies all foamy and carmichael and full of excuses? I am not sure, but we can surely be sure that the surity and security of this and other weevils will wobble, but will never fall down. I can tell you this: I will only lie when the lying has a "y" in it. You bet.