Merry mentors of angst, be wrangled of sardines, tiny bastards of impasse oily flesh,
slime gotten pilfered pungent predators of pecunity. The cat of mice leers my shadow’s way,
and I can open my fate, the red fire bottle awaits to douse my trumpet’s halo of sea bone and flesh.
Absolved? Of what treason? Sardine me to Satan’s Locke. Mad I may become, sad I once was,
horrific in tiny guts glory I am! A saltine with vinegar trembles at my eerie eye,
the sum of time to consummate the two. Wrangle that pedantic philosophy merry cork twisters
and resolve to digest the ingestion – Sinz