Crackerjacks

I spy with my slothy eye a pink bag PIG! A whirlygig. A vaudevillian and a Tilt-A-Whirl nauseator. Damn near a polished brass ring cockteaser tent poled down near Himalaya Town. Unstrung guitars and blown out kazoos. Left feet chopped off at the ankle and lined up by the dozen. The marrow collects in the old copper cup of a burned child. Hosea! PIG salivates lies and hard swallows fantasies of angels and the hard rump of Jesus. PIG chews worms. Knows karate. Under the cedar shake and the sharpened needles of pine and obsidian, beyond the boards, a Blackfoot barker or the felted hat filled with madness ekes out meager coin from the carcass of the world’s smallest horse. Kills another muskrat with his breath. Hillbilly corndog drippy mustard monoliths with armpit children. Kerosene dogs fuck untrained goats. Dollar a scratch! PIG’s shifty drusen scarred oculus dreams a little dream. Pleated pantaloons wear a chain wallet and shits down buckets of cod. Butterheads can't light matches with their testicles. Balled up toe jam. Cool wet steaks of buffalo and phosphates. Honk! Honk! PIG nose needs pie. Squeak! Squeak! Toy box bound mumblette. Heads planted upwards with yellowed teeth unflossed, sun glinted, and filled with ants. PIG, the ol’ pink bag thump bible Gilgamesh. Tantalizing and circumspect teens touch kitties titties on the midway. The shock! Twelve darts will get ya a stuffed potty mouth in Clown Town. PIG’s conjunctivitis ruminates. Hmmm, math’s too swirly. Exercises in how to stuff eskimos need a time out. Navigating is for bird’s beaks and horny conquistadors. Apologies are for untrained artists and field rapists.