The fate you're dependent on is an itch.
Two and a Half Men quadrupling the rancid molecule.
Their objectification of household items: triggers the
sewer system singularity. Moon morgue toe stink.
Hip to knee in the duck swimming pool sphincter
until the moon fidgets, Buzz Aldrin's
O-face automated in the grip of “hate everything,”
from afar it tosses him;
galactic bonanza of skateboard cheese beautiful beautifuuuuuuul
from this naked upside-down angle.
Into the trip computer's bong circuitry we TRONNED ourselves;
among all these skulls I can't reach the PlayStation to clean easily.
Until the nurse arrived, I was seriously into calculating the length
of everything, the sublime sodium sodomizing sugar cube, etc –
And one was apt to wonder about the cube: “Like, is it a fossil?”
They will let you go once you can render your self-esteem
into a pictogram of a T-bone steak fitting into the mental disorder's puzzle;
paranoia is perhaps the biggest rumor monger of all.
In Mad Cow aftershave is what the surfer wets their lint.