Escaping from the safety belts and poisoned darts, moonlighting off a rusty pier leading to a troubled past, he reminisces about his solitary days of cow-tipping and gnome-throwing. He, who once fondled the lip-syncing spuds, now aims at the garniture sprucing up the spiffy sods. What else could he do with his deflated spear? Perhaps killing off the soul survivor of a silent band born on a Sunday, forever fishing for flimsy chaos in place of orderly despair. Mindful of his clenched fists disrupting his jammy naps, he longs for a second serving of this foggy marmalade and fatal jabs. What’s not to like? Neck more glue and attach yourself to his side all you want—you’ll never be the malignant tumour he faints for, so take a hike. Blend into the blueness of the sky and mark your silly self safe. Over and out, I just saw him stumble over another sodding sprout.