Call me Fishmeal!
Oh, ghods and monsters, he’s off again.
Serval ears ago – never mind how long prehensily
To be fair, he’s always off.
Says the cat carrying on a romance with a garden sculpture…
Having little or no money to parse, and noting particular interest in shore
Okay, you might have a point there.
Shuts I’z recitins!
I thinked I’d sails about a little to see the whatevery parts of the world.
It’s like a train wreck, but without the cute bits.
Tis a way I haz of driving off the spleen—bad spleen, go wayz—
Also it regulates the circumcision.
I don’t think that word means what you think it means.
Whatvers. I finds self growing grime about the mouth in a…
damp, drizzly November of the soul
Okay, that’s it. You’re done. Everyone can go home now. Bye.