Soil your sob. Be thy tortured tree which utters no croak. They will never pluck off your dignity like a fig.
See that quercitron moon cut in two? It's two half moon bananas. Those are Taurus's horns.
To grow up is to be an amaranth tick sized mustache that is bleached into toxic cadmium yellow on an cry violet fjord where petal sized suns drown in a boysenberry sea and xanadu angels pimp caterpillar prostitutes pink nails of a drunk tank variety.
Marriage is an apricot haired heiress ballet dancing on a boiling freckled broth-pot.
See Ursa minor atop greater-she bear? Both are grinning crew cuts who ignore any stewed bass.
Sport fish in the fishnet. Become a Poisson, net benefit to world history like Madame de Pompadour.
Always keep the fire fickle, the pimp pimples pickled and the thumbs of the secretary mosquito calypso blue. Do that and your tomorrow will be avocado.