An explosion of girly curl flaxen, ya you

   
   "An explosion of girly curl flaxen, ya you"
   
   I was the schmuck; I see it many times, when I travel, even in the theater of my own psychotic mind.  Thank you for dragging me off into the chamber of Jonathan Winters, for now, like him--you dillweeds gave me a get-out-of-jail free card.  And I always liked Monopoly.  I perpetually play the part of terrier; moreover, this is dedicated to a girlish woman I knew, and she was a terrier--allegorically; I don't need to see Jonathan Winters so soon again, for he resonates within.  
   The lady loved me.  But I was anchored down by a woman's greedy gravity that had metaphorically castrated me in my youth.  Tear him to shreds, and all because he doesn't attend our adolescent orgies or party with us--yup, King is a freak, sitting at the Jewish Temple with two beers and a pack of smokes--we drop him off there on the way to Pandemonium, you know, the party where all the teenage girls are subject to toxic cooters, constantly craving, as their brains are crushed beer cans--everything has a purpose, even beer, just don't be a wanker and waste the gift.  But Daddy, Game of Bones is on.  So what I say--architect your own Game of Bones.  It's all frequency and sublime intention.
   Saw the angel girl in a dream.  Is that illegal, to have a dream?  She was loving a soul with her eyes closed and heart open.  It was nice.  It's nice to be nice.  
   Wish I would've known.  Wish I would've told her.  Even still, I tell her now, and forever--that she is one hell of a lady.  And it was good to know her, even if only in a bitter kiss of time.  Amen, Amen, Amen . . .