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Strange teardrop grin, empty hands, empty boots, empty napkin. Long cold tea drinker, gangle and dangle, dance and swing, frown and bow down and sip sip sip. Glass top table, wrought iron heavy handled deep dish fish, cakey flakey and dry. Oatmeal skin and tattered taupe toupe, tumbling like tendrils of creeping tyme or a midnight mime, just so so quiet and quaint, and a tad sad, but certainly not bad. Long nights and grey grey morning and rain and clouds and pavemant and cigarette butts and wine bottle and rye bottle and crystal and silver and heavy canvas and delicate linens and pots of heather and phlox and white astlibe and blue sweet peas, creeping and sleeping and falling falling, leaving sleepy piles of pretty petals and sweet smells of summer and breezes trough apple trees. Mice and rice and lice, and vice grips fix slight drips, and windows and ceilings and uneasy feeling, nap times and simple rhymes and crumbly cookies.
Four in the morning is the emptiest hour.
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Muthtard?! Don't let'th be thilly. Lemon, now that'th different...
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