FUNK ODOR...
...girl tonight gives me some puke stare like a produce department's funk odor so I give her mustard mean glare inspite of all of the grinning fruit...want to invite her out to peel a fresh sneeze of onions, but she's not weedy enough to accept strange dandelions picked like black fruit from the grave...can sense that she's all about roses...as I have to string down this crazed purple tulip of mine...
...polluted brown-hash bearded butt rash, go about giving big polished teeth of macho favors and build stock on those pledge-waxed up words until that swollen nut sack suffocates the friendly worm dirt-seeking germ...I give you the gift of blank stare like depressed Celion Dion song...gold is your color while bright light diamond only cuts about a mirror that reflects the blood-labor of 3rd world nation...
...I'm too busy listening to blue and green rhythms trapped in aluminum can...I'll just let it all fizzle until the sun comes up and sleep like purple shades of electric roller-coaster mind until the moon stirs up hep-cats of the wild pulp night! I have only one question in mind: why do all of my ex-girl-friends' recent boyfriends look just like Mr. Potatoe head? Leaves a funk-odor behind...