Rabbitfoot capers are not lackies to the dark capitalist enterprise that emanates form the purveyors of indiscriminate hatred and fuelled by biliousness. We refuse to adhere to hairy armpit world that tastes of mince, elongated by tradition and havoc, size and maroon flavoured orange governments.
From the depths of desolation and despair we scamper through fields of bone and loose scrumpy to yield to the giants of wood and bare knuckle through the intense, quivering wreck of our own existence.
The sound of screams and laughter echo through the pink halls of consciousness, endlessly repeating the terminal death of the magic purple headed banging stick.
The cycle of peace runs through the cave of joy, nestling restlessly in the comforting barbed wire of the hand held barcode. Cheap is the sound of the budgies call. The curse of goddess, laughing at the sarcastic mice who whistle tunelessly in the hall. And we think it might rain as well.