Oh god, there it goes, the omega gasblaster,
It's going away. Clicking on the token,
Eating pickled snails with painted corn-wedges,
Drawling on and drooling on the spiral lady
Sprawled over a howling chained elk,
Little gong-wing pearly bird, wealthy androgyne,
New streak kitty stringing in musty cellars,
He zinged again! It's stellar for the social dyskaryote.
He spilled a guy's guts once over a red snapper.
Your honor, the stakes are char-limned about,
Flushing the toilet is like swallowing something,
Your honor, gurgling oil. And his hair's retracting into his bones.
He's in the grip of wee wing bee wasp Alrowoxcus.
In a Houston train station, a blip of gel folds up his neck.
They bring in a jar of some polysyllabic moderation or other,
And prime it for the pumping.