My President is a sociopath and there’s really not anything more to say about that.
Listening to Prine and thinking about you and priming your pump.
I honestly don’t know what that means, but please know I desire to be Natalie Wood to your James Dean.
Start your engines.
Start whatever passes as an automobile in these steamed and pressed times of fever pitched ferocity and tuneless caterwauling.
It’s way past midnight and I wish to drag race with you through your awoke mind and purring Scottish bodie.
Something there is about the way you part your lips as you walk to and fro from work is beguiling, bewitching and bedazzling.
The ink covering your bodie covers my nightscapes as I brandish a candlestick like in the board game Clue.
Murder is never something I’d sign up for and the same goes for public displays of affection in these saturated times of duress and social distancing.
The Peter principle has been weaponized as people take to the streets for haircuts and our civil liberties get sliced to ribbons by a public of wimps and wannabes.
Turning over this basket of deplorables is long overdue as we reap a harvest of rotten vegetables and freezer burned ideals.
It’s time to call it quits as this social experiment craps out and my love for you burns in the window like a candle or Viking funeral.
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