Fried

Back up with that baked catfish. Cup your ears before I look in the cupboards and find nothing but an IOU from the chair man; but he doesn't pull your chair like he does your switch. It belongs to you not the overstuffed manifestation of a spiderweb builder, hiding the dead things in strings and shadows. Today and before there have been faces to contend with. Now there are just things, backing up the lines for filing motions or voting. Bring them on, the peace lovers and solution finders, those damn ones with not just guilt, but the guts to go along with destablization of corporate democracy in favor of brandished justice and economic and social humility, allowing the oppressors to suffer their favorite fate.

Translate for me what your beloved pet just said? Keep those of the floor off the flooer, for four times this year, have I not like replacing something old with something new. Know when the pattern is so obvious, there is an "I told you so" in there. Someone please sweep the broken glass from the floors of Freedom Hall and change the hanging garden from rose to lilies for the dead. Drip sybolic faux blood on the fake lawn of justic with a piece, without peace, and a backup for grand theft US Constitution. Err on the side of anything else than pre-emptive agression, unless it's to hold the desecration of ethics and science by the means and Yahwehs commitee, not from where Jah is sitting, so there doesn't have to be an investigation into why hell is missing from my afternoon e-paper.