To My Heavy Rotation

Voices louder in the empty office, “I’ve basically written off last year.” I am covert with leaf breath sitting under headsight and thinking of the password to her electric diary, “ reindeer with a fungus.” True, I’ve got eight-year-old humor, she’s got the croup, a barking seal on the Twister Moves. I’m getting the language down, hang a drip, watch the BP when they’re giving you three percent mouse. Side effect, side effect, how about euphoria? No, I Can’t Get You Tickets is the Baby It’s Cold Outside of 2005. Uncle of the stomachs, we fondon’t, forget the carvers, streusel, iceberg, iceberg, Vesuvius.