The debt is never paid. She sold him the cigarettes proof he was there. The camera time stamped the transaction. He would of rather died himself if he didn't think he could win. He chose not to try. What was he guarding. He couldn't handle the power. He was just a nice guy. He bowed his head to amatuerishly acknowledge the overfed buffoon. He ran the company like a toad. Zapping incests on the fly with his sticky tongue. His voice changed to the croaking accent. It was a dry year made sense for him to take over. His bumpy skin covered by expensive silk shirts. He plopped around full of flab. The bright stripes lined up at the seams perfectly. His face was lovely, adorable you could say. A momma's boy. He did what he was told, obviously, ate all the food on his plate. How to get him to see his lack of confidence kept the toad covered in silk. A pile of crap guaranteed flies. Whatever he was hiding blinded him. One less warrior this battle would be lost. Nothing to fight for. The victory certainly doomed by lack of courage. To speculate tragedy became a fashion statement. What rhythms with boring?
It's not what you think it's what you believe. Patricia '96
No comments:
Post a Comment