An Hour of Dire Greediness

I have no one to ape for anymore.

Who has a brass ring; are the animals then meant to speak.

Yes to the latter.

Of which.

Zombies are meant to have the finest.

Mindlessness is not a real word.

I, for one, will agree to disagree.

I have no degrees, insubordination.

In tall oaks, as the saying goes.

The shaving cream is on the crevice.

A razor for no man.

A what?

A razor nomad.

A what?

A general, most indistinguishable interrogative.

I’ll query my database and get back to you in a prompt and inefficient hour.

You better start dancing, Swan Lake.

A pink candy heart.

If you say so, Cinderella.

Don’t coat this room in candle-wax.

You are too an appellation.

I’ve had no scissors that I didn’t like.

I am rounding the bend, as the saying goes.

Interrelations of the strangest order.

I tend to be distressed, Appalachian.

You mock a mountain.

Chain.

You bird a goddamn feather, Fly Boy.

I’ve pissed in Cloud City, sure, if that’s what you mean.

This cardboard box has your name on it.

I have neither time nor talent, and I aim to keep it that way.

Godfather of my egregiousness, do you quit.

For all the lovers in Memphis.

For the King is but the best thief.

Stealing wax, are we, stealing wax.

 

-Mark Gurarie