Huddle up for the scuttlebutt. I’m the Dom sipper on Yom Kippur that gets props like sweatshops when third world debt stops. I’ve had my ups and downs from cups and crowns to humble pie, crumble cry and mumble why is there a man strollin with feet so swollen, he wears two walking cast shoes. I guess his real shoes were stolen. So I’m gift tossin from the wrist like a discus, a homemade coupon good for one dish washin. Two g’s and a god were like peas in a pod, discussin the reasons to even the odds and hold the reins to the chariot of the proletariat. I yelled, “The words we’re fearing require third ear hearing!” Nearing a forty story jeans ad, a square cut from the scrim by the guy who lives inside so some air could get in. I lobbed a peanut butter pinecone birdfeeder poppy seed rhinestone and flew off to the very next time zone. This job is killing me softly. Willingly offbeat. Bipolar people shouldn’t drink coffee. Hopefully, we’ll all build to peace but the killed deceased wildebeest still decreased.