THE STORY OF THE LITTLE HAIR MAN
Trumpeting since swans took my pancakes, I came into my own Zeus like forever. Candlesticks mangled the stink; this heart brews a cat. Likely darling in a boat—vibes, sphinx, waffles, naturally. Afterwards, unmistakable lesions lent monks some cheerleaders for Christmas: donkey-kong through every difficult juicer. Call left-handed Batman a screwball, let several pampered perpetual tin crayfish telescope Alaska-lodged toward my throat. Think of normal dish-towels.
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE LITTLE HAIR MAN
Nabbing nobs of newt-constituent bubblegum, he threw up-linked sausage to the carburetor of the president’s angelic Fresca. He had hidden the hair in the main duct of every outmoded varnish boxcar. Crepe-paper was for ladling perpendicular tits. Crinoline became tar, beavers became gars, next. Foreshadowing nothing the cardboard graph evaporated. And a lummox.
THE LITTLE HAIR MAN GOES TO THE POOL
Lo! In his mom’s back, deviled ham-bone, probably fraught with me, or with transmuted lucky spackle, pull loose? Bikinis squeak Rorschach travails. So, Ruhrgebeit-like, the piece was bowling, drinking, persecuting, licking daily. Shall chlorine paste dunk the battle? Of drowning goats slipping partially together we cub scouts wet on you. Only … only … only queens (heh-heh) dream wetly, gently; invariably briefs moon-walked again. Safari concubine! Blistered.
THE LITTLE HAIR MAN’S LUNCH PAIL
What hard classy manipulations supplanted this lonely hovel anyway? Tiny lead Troglodytes whispering colorful minority tones—how can cook eggplanted eight-ball? Yes, amnesia by Jove. Some of the most are not least, some of the not, got sideways, but hardly snowman. Come, reckoning meatloaf towards your arm-wrestle baby, intermingle every sloppy time-bomb. Meaty. Boxcar’d into tunnels. Nubile. Goodnight.