The Golden Ant King

oh my god you smell
like a turning bridge.
fourteen not without broken carnables.
sliding like the ostritch bent within the inside of a swimming pool.
poking faces through seventeen rows of columned vinyl cups, planting evergreen ash trays made in the sea of lost wellingtons.
forcefully gaining entry without any kind of silver formed or clay carved trails from the tail of a cat examining the remains of a biscuit trail left by something.
not even carrot plantations cure the second aid of ants antique statues made in honour of the golden ant king.
you cant even begin to walk the way of a wave passing by the corner shop spree fulfilling many times spent by a curved athletes foot.
your shots at the moped are failed, you cannot shoot it for it is not a mopped floor for the taking, it is not a mopped floor for the taking.
motorcake volunteer breaking inside the transparent metallic finish of a bisexual cycle, qwerty down the river briskfully engaging in slightly misplaced silk cloths for the lense of the dead.
monaco off a tricycle, broken midget clothes, maribo earwig faints, staple tips, staple tips.
your busts arent as robust as a robots bust, luckily i can turn the remains of your odour into an extra fine needle for prodding cows without them realising.
luckily i have just dissolved your eyebrows and reshaped them into an extra thick public hair that can be used for pick locking doors.
the end.