la! this is not funny because
boringness envelopes the heart of the sun warm,
resonating in the colder agony that flies below
the windy tree in the raining depths
of my blackened soul when vermillion mahler ascends
unto the deprived hollow and slithers up, across a
roughened dream that's filled with buckets of chocolate ice cream
that's added to "what's his deal?!" "i don't understand"
and why should you, my little friend said, "of course you are insane!"
but my funky colours, always there hiding amongst the lights
of the casinos; forget that pie rules because your mum
is on a mission to flip-flap the majestic seagulls without regard
to time because she is a filthy rich heiress to the throne
of the pixel palace on 2nd and market street, but if duke wins it all,
evil will have prevailed once again and again one average
joe shoe laced with colour farts on the earth with
a swift motion, reminiscent of strawberry cake about which
linnets sang at tea-time and flew up into the sky