Harrod Gazaneab and the nose marchers

the old man sitting, sitting on the floor
the news boy running, running to the door
the grand nose marching, marching to the war
the sad child walking, walking as a chore
the angered finch swearing, swearing at the whore
the dieying crow crowing, a sharp and rasping craw

the churned up guts are splattered, on the party floor, our nose is bloody the finch is muddy and the garnish reminds of gore. the soy plays on its trumpet flute, a song of fancy four, in the silent murky mist the old man is no more.

angered lorses, lost their berds,
gone to the chapel feast
lit fire to the herds
eating up the mans old tail, a sand of clammy hairs

happy go lucky salmon brook, chopping on his loaf. began to sing he did, to the old carron bead.
the bead of course replied not, as a carron bead does. and Salmon sat, to observe his quiet carron feind below. "why speaketh you not, foul window of feeth."
"carron, carron, carron bead beeth."
"now speaketh you crazed, and unfathomed words."
"doth hoisten me up, i hunger for burds."
"sand widdows of Gazaneab, you poor muddled fool."
"doth hoisten me up, i hunger for burds."