Chuck Wayne's Bidet

The "Why Toby?" treatment was in effect and gaining ground 

by the hour, but it was all I could do to remain seated in a 

sanctified posture within the alcove that (even now) is strewn 

and strewn again with a daffer's chrome-call 'pair o' twos', 

and we are officially needled. The skap and the skup of it 

almost never protrude without a wall's light for guidance 

and delay. This paid Gnosis crap is bent and befellowed, 

but only a last one of my marshwillows is expected 

to enjoin keeping a Trojan frog for many a curtain's ugly shadow.

A chair that you coveted might fade under my call, 

if by that we indicate proling by (the) God's stolen wig. 

White could never be a conversation starter after slate 

is picked for Final Option Four. You who will not arise 

with a smiting intention, are scheduled to accost and 

victimize (in a decidedly obtuse manner) the person 

who poses as 'tree helican' and departs as huffy expert, 

trial exploiter, Jane Wilson wrangler-er (and more) et al.

The gift, we are pleased to learn, is merely a decayed 

branch recovered from a(nother) 'grassy knoll', one we 

paid so dearly for in the hour of departure, a ring-code 

our only method of fraud detection to seep peace unto 

the corporate governance trap kids' faces. Never more 

so than when she backs into an ornament of her own 

devisement. Even disheveled, she keeps an atomic clock 

as a 'poison pill' in Chuck Wayne's bidet.

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