Union Blue--underground, country music

   
   "Union Blue--underground, country music"
   
   Taken from the Earthy North after barely a year old, being anchored in the Confederate Capital; next, wending deeper South.  Here's a ditty:
   
I love my Jap-made truck;
My shamrock luck--
I'm a Yankee Doodle
Ain't being feudal--
Do you like to fish much!?!
  
   Like the American Coyote, every Transplanted Yankee absorbing Southern Beauty and simultaneously remembering his Sublime Heritage is an American Original.  

Jazzmin Flush (42)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (42)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was cautiously crushed; specifically, got the nasty news that Girthy Gilda had passionately passed--Thomas explained:  "She totally uttered an Act of Contrition; next, boldly blasted off to God."
   And indeed she had, transmigrating until unto the DIVINE JUSTICE SYSTEM, getting great recommendations for a fabulous form of astral-like reincarnation, knowing her lazy family neglected her to the gruesome grave; still, to starburst ghostways, glittering eternal, haunting the horrid hell out of every soul wickedly infatuated with making Miss Jazzmin Flush and her pretty posse perish.
   As a result, infused with a specter's kiss--Jazzmin Flush knew this wasn't a nefarious death, yet a mighty challenge, a gallant gauntlet laid bear-trapways, smacked down, facing, always, the pestering poison of iniquity.   
   Thus, Jazzmin Flush graciously gobbled up another soft taco, sprinkling a delicious dash of the mystical mustard seed atop its open sombrero.  

Jazzmin Flush (41)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (41)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush sweetly swooshed around some loose cilantro within her yummafied oral cavity--a fresh, minty tongue getting the Mexican parsley to smoothly slide down further into her intestinal tract, where, as most herb-like things do, it illustriously illuminated the process of digestion.  Rascal was across from her willfully working on a chewy chimichanga, dripping the drool of hot cheese from a fanged bite.
   "What kind of dog are you?  I mean coydogs are half coyote and half domestic dog, mostly--so what's your genetic breed?"  Jazzmin Flush probed with question.
   "My great, great grandma was a Pomsky back when the Federal Government began recognizing anomalous humans--or freaks, whatever.  At least the brilliance of Uncle Sam gave us the protection we secretly craved and needed.  Yeah, there are a few monsters in the mix.  But most of us were, and still are--just scared is all, ya know."  Rascal replied.
   Jazzmin Flush, noticing severely, admitted:  "You're really pretty.  Like foxy."
   "Are you fishing for a compliment back at ya--California girl?"  Rascal getting instinctive, then:  "I'm sorry.  I know your pack is pretty weird, and I too want a family.  But I'm lousy at making friends."
  "We need all the help we can get."  Jazzmin Flush solidly said, washing down the remnants of a soft shell taco with the bubbly fizz of Dr. Pepper, knowing it was healthier than Coke, for Dr. Pepper kind of has the word Doctor in it.   

Jazzmin Flush (40)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (40)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush monstrously manifested no pulsating panegyric about Rascal within her own cerebral lines--no sir; nonetheless, there was something wickedly delightful concerning the female, coydog chick, to say the limited least.  And, within her (Jazzmin's) telepathic empathy, she heard Rascal boldly barking at her "in tune" whereabouts, offering:  "I am not a piece of, you know profanely what.  No--I'm a piece of CLASS."  And Jazzmin Flush knew not to be a kingfisher, labeling Rascal a pesky insect to be divinely devoured alive.  She must trust the imperfect symphony of that cool babe's well-aligned weirdness.  Remembering how the weirdo poet woefully wailed about President Clinton after backwarding his empathetic excellence in bard-like Blogs.  For President Clinton, as he evenly admitted, truly felt YOUR pain, loving, loving, loving, and doing so to awesomely assist the elderly, broken, poor, or yet-to-be recognized as great; indeed, President Clinton, simply:  CARED.
   Snapshot, Jazzmin Flush out of Rascal's rascally and mini Mindcrime, not purposely invading, but soaking her soul's terrific truth into Jazzmin's mercurial spark of jealousy, to simply let her honestly know:  "I'm not after your quasi-boyfriend.  Too, we should hang out and get a taco."  

Nashville Sounds, and the Richmond Braves

   
   "Nashville Sounds, and the Richmond Braves"
   
Fanatical fencing and jocular jousting is taboo when observing the Nashville Sounds,
For the mysterious umbrella is a villainous, Penguin-practicing feature that astounds;
However, a Bud Heavy might be liberty-loved and allowed--have only a couple,
Remembering the Richmond Braves in the 1970's when President Carter got no double;
Alas, babysit the delicious dog @ home and in your joyous, muster-stained gut,
For the baseball and the bat crack the bark of a home run mutt.
  

.

Jazzmin Flush (39)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (39)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush nastily, in nagging fashion, knew, as Rascal socially retreated for a much-needed pee break--doth thou knowest; hence, resurrect and revamp the vivacious vixen.  "My gosh my man Thomas!  What is that hungry-eyed girl doing with you?"
   Thomas smirked sardonically.  "She's helping us.  Come on Jazzmin--I'm practically a monk here."
   "Yeah, and she wants to sacrifice you sexually, selfishly spilling IT into her eternal longings."
   "I can't help it if I've got the animal, magnetic pull of it all."
   As if, as if, Jazzmin Flush was pushed and pulled with a monstrous bit of dominance over Thomas, never knowing love might morph wrongways, but remained converted to submission towards the sublimity of God's Good Ghost.  "I'm silly, and a stupid girl.  If you want a chance to decide--you freely have it."
   Thomas was awesomely amazed at Jazzmin's almost wicked insight into tomorrowland, but resisted carnal fantasy with curvaceous Rascal within the theater of his monkish mind.  "I have decided Jazzmin.  I actually decided the instantaneous moment that I had the cool courage to gaze into your innocent eyes.  I love funny, goofy, good-hearted Jazzmin--that's YOU, by the way.  Yup, I love ya, and always will."
   "Then what's this synergy with Rascal you have, I suspect?"
   Thomas locked his orbs into hers.  "She's like a sister Jazzmin.  She's a coydog."

Jazzmin Flush (38)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (38)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was so flushed with anxiety, too weak of a word, to coolly cope with watching Girthy Gilda's grave vacuum; as a result, she grabbed a Lucky Strike out of the beautiful, old lady's midnight-black garter belt, sauntered outside and ignited the cherry with waxing willpower; next, saturated her fuchsia-hued lungs and exhaled prayers heavenways.  It did offer a bit of weird, wavelengthing soothe, but then, then, her inviolate-white flower of decency evolved into the controlling passion of a black rose when seeing her guy--Thomas approaching with a brunette beauty smiling sparkly incisors and sprightly breasts bodaciously bouncing; next, it all got too close.
   "Who is this?"  Jazzmin Flush proudly blushed.
   "Rascal is the name my quintessential California girl."  Rascal blurted, extending a very solid, almost steel grip in Jazzmin's stupefied direction.
   "G-r-e-a-t."  Thomas muttered, never thinking that his Catholic werewolf would loudly spark such frisky and feline fury.