The Cro-Magnon magnate
of sponge cake diversity
reared his ugly head last night,
just as I’d exited the bath.
I said “begone, damn caveman!
Get out of this place!”
The tremors in my voice
betrayed my cool exterior.
Wearing a towel at the time,
I had no use for losing any more
He leapt once, stood still–
leapt again and planted himself;
scratched the small of his back.
After some minutes of this,
he began looking around as though
he’d never seen the place before
(even though he’d clearly been there
for some minutes).
What a nut,
I couldn’t help but think to myself.
Prancy old gillibuddies throw knowledge around like softball medleys–paints display arrangements of pansies unknown to the local eye. Dancing sharpens the highly-regarded nasal passage remedies, whereas shanties never make fine remnants of dipstick ruination. There’s wreckage everywhere and I ain’t got no time for bird sex. “Fancy old patina-laden graham cracker factories have less of a use today than ever before,” Pantsy thinks to himself while milking his goats at least twice a day, unless he’s feeling a tad sluggish.
Antsy Nancy glares defiantly at the bronze statue of Labor Days past while she prays that the latest lancet treats her better. Worse for wear, it’s about time these surgeries start paying their dividends.