Solitary escape from the safety belts and poisoned darts, moonlighting off a rusty pier leading to a troubled past. Reminiscent of its cow tipping, gnome throwing days, he who fondled the lip-syncing spuds aims at the garniture sprucing up the spiffy sods. What else could he do of his deflated spear? Killing off the soul survivor of a silent band, born on a Sunday, forever fishing flimsy chaos in place of order and despair. Mindful of his clenched fists disrupting his jammy naps, longing for a second serving of this foggy marmalade in the form of fatal jabs. What is there not to like? Neck another shot of glue, attach yourself to his side all you want, you’ll never be the malignant tumor that he faints for, so take a hike. One with the blueness of the sky, mark you silly self safe, over and out, I think I just saw him stumble over yet another sprout.