Round Three: The snake in the grass

And so it goes my friends, and so it goes; the constant filling and ghastly growing, mildew milling, mirthy mowing. But then of course, there is the knowing, the silly stilling and stealy stowing, seepy seething, the searing showing. The lowly bowling, burly bowing, coldly creeping, and holy howling; then the slowing, the slowering, glowering roses, those thousand buds of time riding upon the lovely, lordly (lordy look who's forty) portly bugs of rhyme.


Transvestite vestibules gestate (in jest, just ate) with the best of fools, arrest the resting, for the rest are tools, and tools, my friends, are restless.


So why not the smart? It smarts indeed (of which a need in friends kneads friendly knees). And then what of knees? Above ground bulbs of leg, limby turnips, sons of a thousand bony stalks of movement. A whole village of knees! A nation built upon the knobbled stilts! A giraffe, their king, who can be followed anywhere.


Desist dismissal of the art of ease, cease to please, I artly plead! Fall apart the seed of need (parting knees); the pardoned pout of putting out, the pleading, peeling, pushing shout, and in the end, the pearly port is pouring out, the parting after plowing, parting such (and such, sweet sweet sorrow, parting). If not today, again tomorrow

We all know how the story ends... among friends, and in the telling, rather... telling.