So falls Wichita Falls, and falls, and falls, down long halls with stairs at the ends and stares with no end. The rabbit-hole is full; a cold-weather parrot and a northern ox make a parrot-ox with socks; and these boots, once so cold with no feet in them to keep warm, are now warmed by bi-pedal company on a bike. Or maybe a trike? Possibly a pod of whales in the night?
What a sight for sore eyes that would bee, wouldn’t it, honey?
Hive an idea. Let’s embark upon a journey to the ends of the earth. We’ll peddle various forms of mind-lubricant and sale the seize as we sneeze new song ideas into Hank’s kerchief.
Bump, bumpin’ and a thump thumpin', a drunk pumpkin and his bumpkin cousin Doug, rollin’ down the strip, pumpin’ some sweet funk outta the carriage before midnight.
Ding-dong, the girl was gone, and now all they had to remember the party by was a glass shoe that fit nobody they knew. And they still had to get the Finger Prince home before his dusky lady, Dawn, realized he was gone.
Better put the pedal to the metal.
Too late. Last night’s horsepower already turned rodent at the sounding of that midnight bell.
Rats!
Sorry Prince Finger, but it looks like you’re gonna be under the thumb for a while. Out of the palace and into the doghouse. Might be better company out there with your lovely dogs than inside with an angry bitch. And us? Back to the scullery for some skulduggery with a witch.
Horn if you’re honky, ya donkey!
Well, I don’t have a car, but my ass can sure toot. Woot, Wooooot! What a hoot!
We oughtta get together and do this more often said no Meseeks, ever! Whatever!
Stop! Stop! You're killin’ me. Killin’ me softly with your pillow, strummin’ my brain with your ice-pick, killin’ me broccoli, illin’ so awfully.
Pitch forks with a pitchfork while listening to Bjork, and try to tell me if it feels like work and fork should rhyme, just like bough and rough don’t. Enough? I thought so... slow.
Ho, ho, ho. Santa is a freak-ass pimp with a penchant for northern ungulates and dwarves in uniform. Mess with the reindeer and you’ll get the horn, you jolly degenerate. Get the elves to spin wooden sex-toys while you and the boys try them out on Mrs. Claus before speeding off into the Yuletide night.
Mountains of cocaine for Rudolph and the gang, rapture for the missus, misters, and mistresses. Don the gay apparel and zoom red-suited across the sky, dispensing happiness and lumps of coal alike.
He re-tired the old motorcycle with a new set of wheels and rode it for another ten-thousand.
Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the whisky. The whisky thought that fucker across the room was eyeballin’ him, so the monkey got locked up for aggravated assault not long after.
Damn! I guess the moral of that story is that mulberry bushes are not to be trusted. Steer clear of that shrubbery, my deer fellow, and don’t let your venisons hang out in Neverland, cuz we know it’s bedtime over there when the big hand touches the little one. And once that’s done, it can never be unsung.
A cold wind whipped cream across the desert, complementing desserts with panache and sand alike. Alone, he stood in the night, eating crow with a knife while those in the tents below revelled in airy dairy delights.
"Let them eat cake!" he thought.
A shiny moon rippled over the dunes, briefly illuminating dusty dervishes dancing to the tune of a lonely breeze, while he, up to his knees in a sea of tiny rolling glass beads, turned away from his clan and began a journey towards fulfilling new needs.
These didn’t include overpriced electronics; sentient bionics; painted blond chicks (with or without dicks); punji-pits; overturned rakes; or coffin-loads of snakes; just a tasty tipple now and then and some sweet serenity for a change.