The slobbering sloth that stood beneath the window frame caught a moonlit flash of recognition when asked to do so at a party. Not only did the denim rash that spiked the grey expanse of Tasmanian water speak the language of the dominant natives, but carnivals in their prime would slide menacingly towards their wart-ridden behinds, laughing and cackling like the first sweet splash of a stream in a horticultural exhibition.
Eggs played the sweetest tune, humming their hearts out in morbid sympathy. Eventide would commence and the fruit people were embarking on Roman Blind's tapestries. Never one to feel sorry for himself, his beard defied gravity. The pale-faced creatures on their way around the outer wall creaked and howled and spat dust into snakes that bulged eyes on sticks when rummaged by maintenance.
What sound was made when the archer clanked his fertile missionary?
What was the sight that was confronted by the serial-approached lizard?
Now, and forever clothed from heart to skin the slobbering sloth digs ancient watches from the wobbling wall.
The end is nigh, the end is nigh.
Fortunately, I live next door to a clinical institution.