Sleeping Giant, Boonjoggled Frigadore.

We need not a titular figurehead to prowl our paraphets....  How he seems in aspect, similar to that visage of the late king....  List!  List!

He beckons us.

A besmackled flavor about the auditory senses, poison as it were, delivered to the ear, a queen playing false to her lord?  Who says such, but the penny pages, the roiling machine of words that is as much, a poison balm thrust upon our eyes....

Sir Earl Warren?

Smite not, thee, out at the continentals, for they are too embroiled in their own beer-habit and other such, the setting out and all, and all that, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps by in this petty pace, a one note operatic that stagflinches our recepticles and bangsparkles and so forth about our own paraphets, and just the other, there was the national reliving nightmare, not of Donald, but of the towers falling.

There were psychokenetic "breakers" focused intently, as prisoners, against their will, focused about breaking the beams that held the tower, and in New York, a fu**ing waterfall in the ground, like they have to build sh*t on top of the national wound.  Rome figured it further to not build over all the ruins, and so forth, towards modernity, but New York and the bicamerals don't have that kind of gag reflex.

They changed Spiderman so the towers wouldn't be in it, played that falsely, editing the footage, and I had a six hour T120 of CBS with Dan Rather on that day, trying to keep up with the almighty torrent of words coming in, and him not able to prepare his script.  He had indeed cursed building seven into oblivion about an hour before its demise, and the port authority clearing out because of funny noises, and I mean, how many idle people with video cameras in the heart of the city?

He stabbed Polonium on the hyperactive geometrical precipice of the eyes of the internet, and Olivia Newton John was kaput, there were Marvel films nobody really fiddle-faddled about.

Larrietes said to bring number seven down, they all said, "look what you did to my sister", and I was peaking between the blinds and all, not generally barnspangled into raising a muster or mejargle in between, and the Scots had come through with something, something on the other side of the fjord.