would never do it, said block of wood, wouldn’t do it. not a compromise, seems miserly, would. said block of wood. and stood there. i could have punched him, slapped him across the face, gouged his eyes, kicked his balls, slit his nose, pulled his ears, but of course that would have been his thing, wouldn’t it. along with odd pun. i’m sick of senses of humour.
so what are we at? the mother of five –of two– of two of course or is it the father of seven? of six, excuse me.
they hardly allow fathers or sevens on tv, or of six for that matter, that must be a hell of an accident before they get a mention.
now, shall we leave these lines, said sponge, or shall we comment?
comment, said breadroll.
and what’s it going to be then, said sponge, long or short?
short, said breadroll, they’re all shite.
poetic, said sponge, poetry is a nourish. any time. -ment, i meant nourishment. we keep correcting ourselves but that doesn’t make a great story, or explains the title. not funny at any time.
it is raining, said sponge.
it is raining, said breadroll, isn’t it.
bloody rain, said sponge.
it raining the entire day.
29 June, 2007 