Swank Station Chug-a-Chug
Once upon a dime there were billions of people at the bottom of a mountain, trying to scramble up.
The chant was loud and clear.
“I know I can. I know I can. I know I can.”
The blindfolds were on too tight and the finest leather soles were not quite so meant for the walking backward and so people gave off trying and began to fornicate–en masse–there at its base–excremating declaritive social stats by the brand quality toilet paper and who’s the what diamond ring popped through for poopie.
“Nevermind, nevermind. Scrammatcha hand sani-scheisse! I say, I say–didya hear obout the tri-schlong donkey?”
“Yeah, the cat had five!”
“Aha ha ha haw ha ha!”
Whack-a-mole the totem-pole. Peg into the ground. So loudly self-sufficing that we hardly made a sound.
Gone and now forgotten. We swallowed it all wrong. We monkey dooed each other’s dosey-doe and stag along.