Grace
Ian why don't you say grace, "dear god thanks, and if you loved me vegetables would be extinct", now i'm looking down the barrel of a string-bean side like an exodus of biblical proportion redefined, rectangle seat 4, squeeze 5, each one, may not be excused from the table 'til the green gone, stomach revvin' up an episodic rerun, where's a dissipating plume of smoke when you need one? Chris and Graham hate 'em too but advocate a braver chew intended for the code red, cola chaser, nose held, gulp! moments later 2 have been released, leaving me the legroom and the legume police, going "freeze, you with the pretzeled arms, send your fabricated nausea my best regards, and know this kitchen as a prison 'til the pea pods die, I could sit here all night", so could I
Blink Twice if you are being held hostage, I speak and spell of a sleeper cell in the hospice, woke, impersonating busy little helpers, that intimately purr between the hiccuping up of feathers, pick a porcelain dish, a single portion canned, frozen or fresh, defies the glory of the Poultry or fish, via communal bloodletting that rapture spud levy, no '87 supper-scape was truly flood-friendly, ever, including at your basic cemetery for contaminated textures 60 minutes into never, where room temp heirlooms emanate a crude black mist, to a rendition of "dude, dad's pissed", tell dad dude's pissed too, not to mention genuinely brandishing a the new gill hue, still out-mule any last strafing watchmen, 'til the lord taketh waiting as an option,
Less like toes in a tide pool, more like, left, right, poached from notable giant Kaiju, fat neck, fine tooth, rock and lean, yelling' "this ends now eat the god damn beans!" ah!, hangdog mouth talk slang wrong and that there's flatware exhumed by a crane arm, time for some action, stab one ripe for a swipe and extraction, brined in malpractice, carried to the cavernous yap and obliged access, if only in compliance with a deep-fried fascist, peep, literally bite down once, and my tongue get a flooding from my uninviting guts, pointer finger plug a hole in the damn, ma notic, "ok gross, blowfish, dinner's over, go spit", pop call "bullshit", both of my brothers break in, like "he's on his Davie Hogan no mistaken", by the way
Who was at the door just now?
Kids on dirt bikes asking you to bunny-hop the curbsides
Really?
Yup i told em "oh he busy, he staring at his green beans being a total pussy
Who was at the door just now?
Kids on sckateboards asking you to navigate the claymores
Really?
Yup, i told em "oh he cant, he in the kitchen pouting and terrified of a plant"
