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Sometimes I dream of a place where expectations are not met. I yearn for it...
If only: Keebler cookies were common, gall were occasionally mitigated, and if only the Devil and the deep blue sea were right smack next to each other. Rocks were coincident with hard places so you didn't have to worry about getting stuck between them; you, me and the bedpost were never conspirators; pie became difficult. Lies did not come in packs, tissues or a web. Them without sin cast the last stone. Every man, unfortunately, is an Island. Beauty, contrary to popular belief, is in the elbow of the beholder. Rolling stones are simply covered with moss, just as the trees are sprouting so much money they need to be pruned. Witches' tits are nice and warm. You should mouth or gum your bullets. Let the bedbugs bite if they want! And I'll have you know my name is NOT legion.
Speaking of the Devil, he was disembodied, not carnate; the Reaper had become merry; damp hens were happy and peaceful; the wicked got lots of rest; everything under the sun was new; blessings could be only estimated, not counted; a good man was easy to find, in fact we were constantly tripping over them; rain was wrong; fiction outdid truth in the strange department; beggars found they could choose anytime they wished; the sword beat the pen every time. Hell's pavement was of very poor intentions; fish were found to require bicycles; worms never came in cans; and dogs never got their days, which I am sorry about. And the devil you don't know is better than the one you already do. And goodbye, because I'm bored floppy.
