Rich as birds, on spires of silver, (toothbrush in one hand, old leather travelling bag in the other, speaking in a cracked, sad, rasping voice, sort of coughing the words out,
“…and where are my precious stone mosaics that scatter minefields in their wake?”
Pleasured by mysterious little meaningful cows, Hyperion at the window, arranging yellow daffodils in a Chinese vase, coughing the sinister question,
“…why do no cursers blink on me? … no scratch pad sensasionalists turtle dove on me?”
…and the rich crew, with their silver spires, vault like happy parrots, over the black fence, into oblivion.
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