Who pass baton running relay board relationship? Who fell mean bow meaninful? Who saw soul a man observer in collapse a quantum state? Who seize soul of woman creator in spression of wave function of universe?
He who can avoid the falling soda-pop machines while remaining strictly pastoral. He who has more words for automobiles than the Eskimo has words for snow, and she who leaves milk and cookies for Santa Clause but shaves her cherry for Jesus.
When he was accused of blowing his own horn, he retorted, the more you toot. He backed up the argument by reference to a first-person article, called "Caught between the hyopthalmus and the pituitary," which appeared in the last-year’s drought edition of The frigid couple’s guide to oragami. See also the appendix with the straight dope on the atomic icebreakers and their cast of supporting frigates featured in the colored centerfold. The volume was imprinted entire on gloss on trees which grew to their full height and cut themselves down, falling smack dab right into the campfire.
Flash. Disorder claims Onassis. Go to the end of the line and renormalize yr split infinities. It all boils down to a beep of splif peas, or as Sem shed, some sort of a rheubarbarous applejack.
Let us pry and case the joint. Bow. Never turn yr back on the bilelogical clock, even in the springtime at the big band of the era. But do yr hard time full screed ahead, as the maison said to his dixie rosarie. Let’s go for a tumble in the what the hay, let’s head for a treble in the shade. I’ve got two clef foot, so I’m heading for the why, a box lunch will suet me fine on my birthday.
Hoodoodit?
Full sneed ahead, said Sam I am that I am, and that’s all that I am. I live in a garbage can. I put to sea now in Sindbad’s scow, roc of agis, way down upon the sewanee river, a steven fosterchld, baptized by the Edgar Allen Pope. As revealed by the Woman of Fusion from Satellite City. Devour her with yr ize. Yr randomize. Yr compromise.
She was engrossed to find a giant cockroach in her honeymoon pajamas. The cat’s meow.
I gave my love a chicken that had no bone. It was a chicken McNugget. My dog has fleece. Rolfing. She’s a sheep dog.
Thumbs up to the vicarious glitchhiker, Knancy Gnite. The part contains the hole, as the hole contains the part. Yet parting is such seweet sorroro. Hair today, gown tomorrow, said the monkey to the fly. The silkworm spun for to see such fun, and o what a Gee Bee am I. O be an ef gee and kay me R.N.
The eunix system is very applicable to the overall picture. Dollars. Bingo. The shroud of touring machine. Modern man in search of his shelf-life while something warm runs down his leg. "Maybe it’s just my wounded knee." Suffering from its trinity of bites.
The sight of a newborn yawning goes to the viceral centre of the brain and is transferred, by a commodius vicus of regurgitation, to the bored room. This baby’s got factory air, four on the floor, insex, formicating with their aunts.
Who wrote the feeld guide to the opposable sex? The saltons of the earth, when they became peppered with swats, after the foment of the mother liquor.
This is a serious infraction of public whatever. This is smokestack calhoon. This it the trophy for the oldtime hose lay. We won this one for hose coupling. But the budget was leaked by an educated guest, whose informed consent yielded hardons on the rise.
Let’s go out to the park and play the timber videogame. Chop down all the trees before your two bits run out. Don’t worry, nobody has seen god. But I met him on the train and haven’t stopped laughing since. On the road to Bunberry Cross, I met a wombat with a comb, locked in mortal combat for her womb. The victor will take a seat in congress if he can do a lap against the cardinal wind. (The bishop farts at the table). The quashed will be deported to Edmonton and be immortalized forever, or at least until the end of their livers. They’ll be famous in the tourist snapshots, like the human grafitti blazed on the walls of Hiroshima.
Virgin springs are bubbling on the mountainside. Gravity makes them do that. We have no idea of what gravity is, but it always seems to work. It makes everything come down.
See those trees? No matter how steep a slope they grow on, they grow straight up. Gravity makes them do that. Nobody knows what it is, but it’s never failed yet. Hey, I think I got on the wrong bus. Is this the bus to Riverside?
I’ll tell you if you tell me what size bra the queen wears. Cigarettes? Chewing gum? Ammonia capsules?
Put your seatback in the upright position. Thomas Edison invented the electric chair.
Writers may be fond of their characters but they’re not going to get into them tonight, because the poet lost her page and had to scrabble for words. Home is where the hard disk is. Eyeless in Gazebo. Samson slogging his daily way to the cosmic ray station.
Did you know the female tic is blind and legless when she mates? There’s a poem in that, and if you like I’ll xerox you a copy and you can get a real poet to write it.
That’s what the actress said to the Bishop. Her great legs served as a symbol to an emerging populace.
Come let us trip a few cool ones, we’ll bend our elbows, doors ajambo, jambs akimbo. One last question. Les demoiselles d’avenir, barlez vous?
