Trouble at’ mill

Numerous born and countless dead, in a world of dreams and nightmares, it’s crowded in here. Put the milk in the cup first, your divergence is the testimony to your madness. Pick a cat and provoke a fight, hands on table, lips pursed, and, go! Retreat, then, into the hours of night, which is your deluded haven, “be polite”. Society is a symphony of logic, but only on paper, it burdens the creative individuals that can potentially generate the spark, which becomes the flicker of light in a room of darkness. The weirdoes become eccentric, the eccentrics become geniuses; don’t underestimate what you cannot evaluate. Time continues regardless, you don’t, so ‘heads up’, judgement day is a comin’, accept the leaflet, and donate the two pounds. You know how to whistle, don’t cha Steve? Heaven is paradise, but for who is the fantasy tailored? Oh, and duck! Ha, you actually believe something sympathetic can willingly conceive a concept such as Hell? Lies! Lie more times than a cheap Japanese watch. God, you are submissive to the oppression of mass, fear not the Spanish Inquisition. Existence is a toss of a nickel. The fizz is in decline, gulp it quick or slurp it flat; you can’t quantify life, don’t squander it in trepidation. They do do though don’t they though? Patriotic vitriolic potatoes in uniform make horrific world leaders. The field is overflowing with sheep, thank you Mr Jintao, don’t ask Reagan for help; he has a cold. Four horsemen with an arrow of time, good show Friedrich Heine, shame about Thor, must have been looking for North. Welcome to the Oscillatory Universe; are you ready for The Crunch? Look in my bag of entropy, there’s a Big Rip; you can blame Caldwell for that. Uh oh, St John is on the punch again, oh look at who’s the messiah; “it’s all who you know”. It’s getting hot, no cold, HIV, HMV, oh mind your step, there’s a Meteorite there, just push the red button and it’ll all go away. Say what you see Mr Chips, “fat lady singing?” and so our survey says *uh uh* No sorry; death is not a form of death. Just row your boat down the stream, life is just a dream. And in 2012, when you’re up to your knees in snow sunbathing twenty-four foot under the sea, raise your glass to the invading aliens and say “chin chin old chap”.