An effulgence, a steaming rank, monotony of stinking shite, like a dirty sewer full of rats, the place where the shameless sinners run to hide when the light of the day is in the sky, and a stumble of caravans and Picnics, that untidy themselves lounging upon the fading afternoon, hirsute, undoubtedly oblivious, oblique, sanitizers and fabulous magic lotions rolling over and licking its balls, and chasing them and shouting, mounting , surrounds= sounds park benches, which are trapeziuses, and luxurious three piece sweets.

The beautiful fucking sounds of a game of rounder’s, or touch rugby, and all because the sun the dim in the heat of the haze, the incessant blaze, an unblinking eye gazing, glinting on metallic shapes in the sky, of a silvery slow fat fly, or even worse an Angry Wasp, rasping like a Messchermit, Blaw, Blawin, the paper fae ma honds, I,I,I,  a ways an a that, I, I, Irie, Irie, INI Apparition.

The fields are like a patchwork, but in sum places the wild remains, some reminder, sum preservation of a secret symbol of a belief, not faith or knowledge, a means to affect time, an urge to climb, on the winds and currents, the freedom of flight is one thing not given to the kindness of conquest and strong foundation on which are such gargantuan things constructed, my face is  a gargoyle, for you cannot catch me, to stun a mouse.

Wintering Crows congregate in their hundreds and thousands on the roofs of the slums, Blaw, Blaw, it reeks a Shyte, Blaw, Blaw, Blaw and a ways a that r the souls a folk. Fucked in fucked that, like a load of crap and stupendously unbalanced, as I crash into the rocks, I honestly feel quite sanguine, Irie, Irie, Irie,

Like Ants on the rubbish tips, like Flies clearing through the rubbish wearing their cheap cotton face masks, the purity of soul is Ini the pursuit of money, not some Angelic child learning about Jesus and empathicitation, only the blessed few can learn the luxury of the wisdom of mercy, or is the sanctity of life a myth, what purpose but toil, unwitting boil on the roasting hard arsehole of the world and your comeuppance superficial morality regarding the problem of it. I would have one humanist above ten thousand bureaucrats and One Hundred thousands of those who think their superstitious morals are somehow superior

And what a peaceful face that would be if that would be showered with the riches of the world to be saved while his mother his father, his cousins toil, servitude to the tyrants, who only know one way, one power since the First great city of Babylon was built and the Cruel King, and then the evil spirit worshiping Pharaohs, but never mind them, we know that they roast In hell with all the holy fathers and Archbishops, the Generals are being cooked for Dinner tonight, and the Politicians will be served as Dessert.

Perhaps it is true, only in death will you find Peace and Paradise, for life on this earth seems like a living hell imposed upon you, for what is honour, and truth, and equality, sum must serve, this most heinous law, blaw, blaw,

MABOZZARTICHIE