Sleepsical day, Satursway, milk and munchies, grey is gray. And all the streets are filled with footstep feet that barely keep up with the Jones crusher. Goddamn the pusher, babycakes, who takes and takes the world’s mistakes pretending to be almost not quite round: oblate.

Guitars are leering out from corners, little Jack Bruce all creamy goodness, woodentops and metal cheese string, we sing, sing, sing, sing while the buildings fall like tumbledowns not made to last, faster than a single bound. My hands are tied.

Bricks, the devil’s daughters piled up twenty thousand more and mortar. No, I’m nothing more than dreamwhizz whimsy back to bedroom, back to sleepsical the livelong day.

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