(back into the swing of things) [AKA] {Stipulation of train station patrons}

silly strings a silly thing to sing about aloud and out on a crowd of sound in your ears is a crowd in your head is a crowded bed is a crows feet is good meat is pretty sweet when the sugars neatly pressed into sheets of cane and candy lane and dandy warhols sandy wars all the campy for yalls open whore fall down like water something totters nothing teeters between the tweeters the speakers speaker deadens ether but reddens creepers of medicines squeezer and reefer madness is madly laughed at but bradley naftwat ate his math class when the math class ate his numbers that he crunched so he could digest them for lunch or possibly brunch either way the automaters faithful haters scarcely scared the sacred seepers seeping into outer grounds and sleeping with our outer crowns but crowning like the crows were bound to space and screamed without a sound but then we found the bugless mound that grew side town into the rounded pounded place that took up space and related back to faceless face featured fruitless ly with please of bargins sales discounted matresses flattened steel and distressed palaces placed pequiliarly perpendicular to alices open side door window that gripped on with dallas's idea of infernos that kept on to chastises placed in chalices and spaced by halibuts ate by nematodes fostered closing rose bushes noone knows open to noones nose now only neville knows knowing is nothing new nothing is novel to navel refinancers sailed by prized monsieurs ladled to wine devourers aging the line of followers plumitting nail hailed cabs and the sky is pale not for the lined boat sails today we sail and sales detract from our pail of pears pulling its weight through fear fearing its weight will tear feeling the freeing tears bleeding the freezing jeers healing the failed years over and paved its deers into the latent fields

TWO NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-EIGHT