Harold heralded the hounded mouth of Flemish faces, unresisting one idea for another.

Bunches of flowers bunched up in hunches of bananas laid bare by the hare of Haverstrom Circus–elephants included in carnal throstle. Morning nudged at begrudged judges of Bournemouth, and old men tendered their pennies for a roll of the dice. Ignorance to the contrary, the pastries bamboozled pure joints of mutton and sharp fibers of etymology as prim as a pram. Friars of gold and silver, that is. Warrants of opposite kinsmen singularly availed themselves of Woodcock gin, blowing their weekly salaries on austere humors of state, having come from softer climes.

Yellow stockings heralded Ginger’s memories of Harold, but Walloons thought better of it.

Like I know the hairs on the back of my hand sticking up for the poor and downhearted railroad from the station at the end of time to the roundhouse of last year’s chaff.

Chalk walked into a bar and said, Hay, who put that bar there? Hay said Hey! out loud so everyone looked at it as it pointed slowly at the trailer full of hay making its way down the highway, the hay highway. Good grief laughed, but bad grief said, Good grief, why do you have to do that every time? There was total silence, like in a movie just before a bomb goes off. Then a bomb went off, and everyone–Chalk and Hay included–said Hay! we don’t know whether to call it good grief or bad grief.

Like I know Charlie would have a cow if Lucy jumped over the hay diddle diddle.

Nailed precursors of empty foghorns frittered away their apple-a-day until the doctors went out of business.

Fog hats, on the other hand, footed the bill for a neck of pheasants in full throat with the day of deliberate deliberations coming regarding the mess in the courtyard, but the mess in the barnyard was left undiscovered until the country of travelers’ bourns bore fruit of the next generation. Migrations were up for grabs, but the gauntlets gathered garlands and laurels of canyons in their mighty fists, and furious boughs and frivolous cows emerged from their long winter of ecstasy with their dignity intact but their honor in tatters–according to the zebras, that is–but the optometrists had been delayed at the border, so one cannot judge too harshly.

Making amends brought amens to a close, and the tailor’s closed clothes closet bespoke for no one.

Ample samples of unscattered ampules amplified the daily needs of a murder of crows counting black leggings in an ambush of lemmings.

Ginger said I am not afraid to forego standard punctuation. George said what. A dozen canaries harried the postman–having had to ring thrice four days in a row–on his way to the forum of hippos at the hippodrome of Hippolyte. Parasites persist in the effulgence at the intersection of civilization and culture in the coroner’s affair of lollipops and despair. Desperate measures call for time outs with four yards to go in a cloud of mighty dust mites coughed up in an ecstasy of gold, digging for a dozen lifetimes because the shipment of bean bags had run amok among the mockery of pigeons.

A game of corn hole notwithoutstanding, the judge declared Ginger the winner despite her collection of mispronounced punctuation, and George was sore amused.

The tryst in Trieste was a treat for sore feet having walked across a frozen Lake Constance in a leaking row boat all along the watchtower.

At the end of the befuddled mud puddle of muddled mutants, Papa cast a line across the river and into the Garden of Eden. The observations of honored furniture became the operative activity in the days before all concern over and under the opposition to justice and rule of flaws in the architecture. Negligence was nothing compared to the complete cacophony of phony phone booths, wearing boots on the wall like a liquored up skunk in the outfield. Tongues of ice and bearers of curses angered the flavor of the month club with wounded conscience and tattered soles of their espadrilles.

Deliverance came with a fee, but the driver stalled at the on-ramp of destiny, and the furniture languished for all eternity.

The end.

Numbers of numbers enumerated the flawed possibilities of awed awnings aligned in bitter contempt against the filtered followers of patio umbrellas.

Fellas, how long will the throng of entire monuments to sadder days and madder heights trip over the rip in the tipped over carpet, they sang in unison. Ginger curled her hair to the thump thump thumping of George’s favorite radio playing unconstrained qualities of merciful aromas–benightedly.

Taking it all with a grain of salt, the sand flowed into and out of the hour glasses littering the menagerie of Kentucky Bill. Ginger scoffed. George wafted. The awning yawned at yet another neat trick of the establishment to prolong the day of disaster one more day and one more day yet again.

Enumerated possibilities numbered the numbers of disbelief and concerned themselves awl over again.

Grabbed by the seat of their collective pants, the enlightened zombies were thrown into the deep end of the pool table, but they didn’t know how to break dance, so they waltzed their way to Tennessee and reminded the showgoers what life was like before fat Elvis forgot to leave the light on for you, and Tom Bodet shimmied the Haka to the beat of Love me Tender ’cause he was no one’s teddy bear when it came right down to the end of the line as sung by a supergroup of granny groupies riding souped up camels (the camels smoked Marlboros) and what that had to do with British aristocratic houses, not even Colonel Tom Parker understood–nor did Colonel Sanders for that matter, but Kentucky had separated from Tennessee long before the jail house rocked me Amadeus.