"Premisses"

               Green bay, the washing up liquid. Salutations to that of many
               things belonging to them. I've become to the signs and
               advantages of being one with someone, massaging the fruit
               lobes with infested archetypes. Train tries to belong, but
               forever so long equal to that of a mystery. 

               Vague, I've brought myself into finding terrible anomalies
               among the many crowds I see before him. Waving his flags of
               injustice at the terrible, terrible illusions. How come your
               clothes are off? I don't know why that would work in so many
               circles. Being into himself, finding out red words, finding
               in worms. Oh God the pine of that open forest of dreams into
               which I could never become one and therefore closing and
               discussing many fruits with the one and only true fruit of
               one. 2876 equals to that of a hundred and 5ive. Works in a
               circle of injustice. The ease of which I find himself and to
               that wrench reutilizing solitude. No. You have to work at it.
               Alright questions are constantly thrown at none believers of
               sanitary rulers. The rules of which I cannot discuss. Totally
               denying that any misuse of the terms or acquired viable
               knowledge that he beheld to his mother and father at the
               birth place of their men. Holy towers, whales and fauces,
               believers and the ocean creatures. I don't want to be buried
               deep. Sky by much of many women, rulers to which they would
               be and I would be. I love so trying to breath in that air, a
               smoke I would need in that situation. Pushed in a canal of
               injustice. Vermin and no smokes. Shoes dampened with lies,
               truths shrouded with a child crying to his weeping mother.
               Hold them, I need to cry because this world is getting more
               and more evil everywhere they look. That town full of
               negative truths and infested with delinquents. Politics I
               shall mistrust. Authority I shall disobey. And lord, oh lord
               we will be inside one another much sooner than I can tell and
               you can comprehend. Why do my ears go to the news? Free me
               from negativity, I've been covered in it from birth. Its in
               the hair that makes up my toe nails. Interpret mine own and
               me will be so relieved that he hath found you. Sorry.    

               British we do not stand my love of life will not withstand
               for that has been deceived. YOU can open nothing of yourself
               like you hide behind someone else within you. Judge so many
               partners included in water of truth, can we see that? Or is
               this a question you ask unto your own? This sphere that warms
               from within is believed to be deteriorating from the eyes of
               those big shots, I will not have that happen no longer.
               Please when I cry don't dismiss my many words. 

               The shower of which I have trusted for weeks now, on end, is
               sorry for what it has said and when we say it, get ready to
               breath, for now is the time to trust in yourself and self is
               broken by words from that big one of which he cannot see
               because he tries to see [past] truths of the big one. Talk to
               him, question his words of slow torture. Why laugh at bile?

               Mutating, turning their heads left, right and center. Forced
               perspective.

               In the reason of mankind, nobody can escape. We have been
               placed on a place full of inevitable strife. Along a path,
               dark at night, leads you down a hole where badgers and moles
               run free. You see that creature thinking to himself and not
               ever having to question his own kind, because intellect is
               not knowing and not wanting to. Something we would never see
               of questions, dark, mould, youth. Troublesome aches and pains
               born of youth overwhelmed. Cakes and rashes. Boils and soup.
               You could say Wednesday is that very same day and yet were we
               born? Doubt. Where to free wands and that summer grass and
               distant lawn mowers, that house. Dreaming of some unknown
               kind can only cause mischief. If she only knew how much I
               liked her sharp shoulder blades. Met at the grey barn, corn
               fields, horizon. Her garden grey. Would she love that I never
               had time to understand rubbish misled? Or untold? Delicate
               waters we tread upon barking cats. Imagery has faded in this
               age where images are no longer blessed. 

               Demands of the 12th century norm. Aging 1, 2, 3.

               Believe in much more than a soaked up pile of salad that you
               eat like a washed up star. My own tales are more than what
               anyone remembers to demand of the thriving washing basket.
               Any Monday will be fair, as is any other weeks worth of
               washing, why not be that one, two, three. Remands of open
               wounds on the leg of a lover behind a wall of soap. Draining
               cigarette fluid from her open eye, seeps out of the corner.
               Wise words of the baby are that just of the annoying bastard
               playing his Stratocaster like a prick. His window open to let
               the uninterested scums hear what he has to do. I hate it, it
               reminds me of them. That window wide open and forced tunes
               sounding like a baby. Lay me down on the salad. The next time
               you see them making their sounds out of windows rotting, make
               them out to be just as scum as canal pushers. Toil, toil,
               toil in the trouble of mankind's own word upon a high rise
               scraper. They wish for me and I try to care, but for what
               worth? The river runs shallow. Paranoid to be seen with a
               window so transparent, I see through them, but they not
               through me because I am not as brain fed. I wake on an open
               morning to find myself on a cloud of angels, they care about
               nothing and wish they could be off it. Why? I ask them and
               they tell me nothing of the sort. So we find much more in
               common than you might think. God forbid we tell it. A child's
               mistrust is one with not to be faulted, they say and how
               quaint this town may have been in those days, now it is
               infested with those pigeon faced commoners. School was tired,
               old it got within weeks, I forgot. Blame me not for crying. I
               missed one Christmas, just one and they will never let me
               forget my old days when I was rich. How can I be blamed for
               something everyone has forgot and why would they care about
               it. Right, I said. If we find a way somehow to finish this it
               will not be in my century, nor his. The time travel will
               fortune us with truths we lest forget. The ones which we
               bring back with great agony to our souls. Care for me please.
               I am tired of hungry souls that rip out my left organ, the
               keys still work, but the pipes are rusty with pain.  

               Delicate genesis is read without question or moral. We could
               find an opportunity when we are confronted with greed and
               pain. Sea washed up, gates closed. My friend do not ask of
               embellishment. Your forefathers have gave you this land as a
               token of their greed and they shall not take it back kindly
               as a gesture of your regret. I cannot express my sympathy as
               much as they, yet I have been bound with this inevitable
               future taken from my path of want. You can see them wander
               through that dark creek on a night so different from any you
               have experienced, yet it is so distant in your minds eye.
               Sell it to yourself, your mind will obey with a stern face
               you give. So as I say the questions are unanswered to miss
               queen bee, wine so poignant will ever foretell a future
               unkind. Trample out truths and bless wisdom with kindness.
               Your soul cannot empty its beliefs. True. On Friday we see a
               baked fiesta, its life so open like that window of mistrust.
               Hot inside like a warm paella. Best served in a dish best
               cold. Antarctic ocean berg is less saturated, bothered by the
               oncoming heat brought upon it by our forefathers sons. The
               rain drop you see on the wing of a robin that Christmas eve
               makes you think. Began its day in the tree of great comfort
               from which it came and it came with news of a great day, but
               your man seized it in the second day. And he shall so be
               bemused by the passage down which we set foot on that cold
               morning of mistrust. Dampen my eyes once again, the cloth is
               warm and somehow tamed by its own supply. It would take a
               year maybe
                         to reach out to its owner and ask of a sacrifice
               to its many believers. Drink deep. I tell you though, if
               you'd dine with me a second evening, we would see many
               changes in our personable friends. Their eyes lit up by
               circumstance they won't understand until the eve of their
               cowardice. Gentle I soak my las, she asks so much of me that
               I wish she were dead on that cold eve. No, I speak words of
               anger at my beauty, but she understand. Her eyes flickered in
               that scolding sun, our hut burnt by the towns people that
               were once my brothers. I now hate them for their actions are
               much acted out, they plan a second before they act. I tell
               them and you to so believe in something less pretty, for it
               will stab you in the end and its tongue is bitter. Broken and
               torn at its very core by a simple magpie it sees on a lone
               day. Cracking its bewilderment on and empty shell discussed
               by a bitch. Volumes of treachery are taken up by the men that
               raped her soul. Her heart is now one, one with which we are
               kind to disbelieve in the face of adversity. Sunday is one on
               which we couldn't take up with a fork and a pin, troll is
               scared by its own footsteps on that bridge. Spider eye is
               indeed told off by mother nature, I can't see why she would
               tell? Scoop up sorrow, scoop up any anger left burning, scoop
               up your scares and trouble work and find a new disease. Its
               scope is realistic and its proportions true. You will indeed
               find a new way in this age of discomfort. Tell your one
               Wendy, she has not been a nice girl. Cry to her when she ache
               with frustration at your inept and lackluster philosophies
               about her pregnancy. She death defies with her traumatism of
               life. Skull and cross bones in your eyes. The island on which
               you are sat is sinking with great speed and one day you will
               wake up in salty water not knowing how to accomplish escape.
               See it through by only the best thing you know, not what you
               have been taught, but your only knows. I'm escaping now to a
               better tomorrow and when I do we'll both have our last picnic
               with the dragonflies. See you then. 

















                              "In Honour Of My Brother Jane"

               You shit on your own kind while I shit on my own mind. Tell
               the doctor that you slag! I bet he would give you something
               in return. 

               List of things to do in the 21st Century:

               1. Wipe that smile off her face.

               2. Wipe that smile off her face.

               3. Wipe that smile off her face.

               4. Wipe that smile off her face. 

               5. Wipe that smile off her face.

               6. Wipe that smile off her face.

               7. Wipe that smile off her face.

               8. Wipe that smile off her face

               9. Wipe that smile off her face.

               10. Wipe that smile off her face.

               11. Wipe that smile off her face. 

               12. Wipe that smile off her face.

               13. Wipe that smile off her face.

               Now. If that is all clear in your mind you might want to try
               doing nothing. Do nothing and everything will be good enough
               for you to do something. On that note I would like to say a
               big thank you to everyone involved in world peace.

               Sit on my brother Jane tonight with your candle lit dress.
               Its so much great when you wake up with that dress on fire on
               you, it really makes me want to do something to you under the
               covers. I think that dress looks right. It doesn't make me or
               you look fat when I look at us in the mirror. It actually
               scares that ghost away, it did before our wedding. In the
               dress my hand once went and it felt quite cold. Crying with
               something on your dress, like a box of memories for example
               will make you cry when our mother comes round. Do you not
               think? She has never worn the dress because she is a fat old
               witch and we will burn her in that dress next weekend in
               fact. Tell her that if you like, I don't bloody well care any
               more miss. She has done enough for me to hate her with a
               passionate eye for her breast. I like her dress. When will we
               next be in that flat with the bodies. I'm not scared of the
               writing on the wall or the cats in the corner. The dog smiles
               at the dead cats because it wants to. The dress floats over
               to the dead cats and covers them up gently. I remember once
               when me and the dress got fed up we went to the park. We took
               20 packs of cigarettes and I smoked with her dress on my lap,
               not frightened at all. Kevin Smith get off my gutters! You're
               not allowed my dress. My brother Jane would wear the dress
               without fear in public. I would follow with a kind eye, but
               not a kind mind. His solitude sometimes gives me the creeps
               when he is sat up all night with the dead cats in the corner.   

               Right. Next up is the one and only gender convention for
               miss. She wiped me right, but I'm forgetting her already. Do
               you doubt that she ever wore the dress in public without a
               smile on her? God no. She has made it her duty for seven days
               to wear that dress like an aging queen of hearts. I take her
               cards and stick them all over her bedroom with my hand and
               when she comes in I point to a card. "Read the card!" I say.
               She starts to tremble at my harsh words, but I don't care
               what she thinks because we are planetary creatures born for
               fuck. "Open the cards!" I said, but she still dismisses my
               proud words. "Why are the cards all over my wall Jane? Why
               have you done this so proud?" I kick her. "Don't even suggest
               that my minds eye is out of context sister. You struggle at
               your own injustice several times a day and I don't even get a
               blister." This is the last time Jane was spoken of in their
               relationship full of angst made by their sanitary rules. 

               Holding their own. They don't wish to be reborn in a new
               century. Technology is lackluster. The dress came off. Miss
               sister blister tries to open her face up with a pair of
               plowers. She like stare at the flowers for days in her garden
               of honey and dew. Wandering down her grandmas ashes in an
               open jungle. The violence is far gone and her blood is
               rushing through. God doesn't know her any better than Jesus
               doth. Eating her pie at a violent restaurant in a trench
               where her brother Jane's corpse lies. A vulgar creature flies
               down and sits on her lap, she pets. The creature gets
               depressed at her sad brother Jane so he spits on him. The
               brother wakes and sits facing the vulgar creature. The vulgar
               creature sits on his face. Winking at a one eyed politician
               sitting on his wall in a place close to home, a cigarette
               falls down. Miss is blissful this week and so is another guy
               who wears a dress.

















                            "Static Bedroom & Swarm Of Bees" 

               Quiet was the rain as it trickled down the broken drain. Some
               water fell out and collapsed on top of me. I didn't mind, as
               this was the greatest day in my early life. Or so the witch
               child told. Apart from birth of course, which I remember
               clear as night. The crystal clouds began to form in circles
               around the sun while I stared into the bleak weeping willow
               which seemed to be in a different season. The reason that
               tree was brown when summer was around is something of a
               mystery to all of the neighbours. Especially to the kid
               flowers who looked up to the mighty oak man. While the rain
               fell for the 42nd time in an hour, the quartet of half child
               toast soldiers began to march one by one out of Miss's house.
               She was quite concerned about this and so was her brother
               Jane. Sally the rain cloud bitch followed the toast men to
               the hill over which nobody could see. In the dark night a
               hundred and five crooked figures stood. The path was scary
               and the eye of Miss was beginning to bleed again and so was
               her bloated foot. 

               My girl skipped so innocent through the town as it fell to
               ashes. She passed through the park, through the field, past
               her last relatives house and to the last patch of land. She
               watched the people burn and the salad band returned for a
               second dinner at the willow. Satan fellow rose from the ash
               town in a big curtain cloak holding a wooden skull and a bone
               man. The little girl whipped her rope under her feet which
               were being scolded by the reflective surfaces all around. The
               sun was cold, mind, and like steel to touch. Satan fellow
               arranged to meet her later in the eve after her skipping
               session. She denied and let him hold her letter to Mummy. Did
               not read nor find the poem to mother vaguely amusing. He
               noticed her shoes crumpling and turning to fire in the
               violent ash river. Her buckles became brass magpies and
               bright young iron soldiers who fought the wars so great. She
               did not care, carried on skipping in the face of Satan
               fellow. Satan fellow grabbed his stick and brought out
               several eyelashes from the young skipper while she was
               sinking in the violent river of ash. He also removed her
               pupils as not to scare the iron soldiers while at work. They
               sunk. Miss was deep under the ash by now and swimming through
               bleeding gas chambers. Brother Jane carried on with dress as
               not to offend the brass witches and soap cladded iron
               soldiers. I return.

               Night eleven and all was still and warming up like a brew in
               the ash town. Delinquent child met with brother Jane at the
               old tin and iron factory. They made many a wish fulfillment
               in that old store room and on the 32nd floor where the only
               shop stood still, there was a man. His appearance was like
               looking into a half smashed television with fussy bits of
               electric firing at your cobwebbed curtains. You dare not look
               behind you, you feel that presence. The grey square room with
               shelves full of only half eaten toothpaste tubes and jars
               full of iron filings seems to be filled with blackness. The
               urban decay that can be seen out of the window is full of
               static, the few crippled men that walk around out there are
               only half as bad as you can imagine. The only sound that can
               be heard in the darkness out there is that of the electronic
               bees in their millions. 

               I'm feeling the pain rise up through them as I look at my
               globe. They are stuck in a world of 24th century madness. The
               pilot that flew them there is deceased and he travels back
               only to buy static for his robotic wife. She eats much more a
               day than the town of ashes can supply. Again, the rotting
               cats in the corner of the grey box room are a constant
               reminder of what this century would become. The civilization
               of brother Jane which was devoured through kids meddling in
               time travel is gone. Gone by static, the computer wrote death
               threats. Icy landscape in the other direction is of course
               the opposite. Their words travel by signals unknown even to
               themselves and their minds are broken through a need to
               create. If only you were frozen as were they. 

               The delicate child who has developed this mind-set could only
               be revived through a poisonous arachnid. He lives inside the
               body and his carcass is yet to be healed. His axe was used
               back then for shaping the future. Wise are those words which
               constantly spew from such a perverse ideal. Their views are
               contrived, as are their understandings of our race. If they
               even dared come back they might see a change after 12
               centuries or more, but that is something that can only be
               discussed by a mother much harsh. She is holy. Our Earth is
               growing apart and nothing wiser is known in this sphere of
               thinking, nothing created knows who they are, but they are
               aware. That is all they need be and for that reason they have
               become wiser. Their goal is not greed, but to simply be.
               Destiny was created by the dress for purposes of recreation
               and beloved symphonies. Treacherous journeys are ones we must
               all take in order to be one with our souls. I've sold that to
               Miss and her brother Jane on the occasions of faith reduced
               and now we can hold our own for 32. I'm sorry mother for
               doubting your only new shroud, but this one is taken and
               smashed by me and them to heal the rotting town. God forbid
               one another inside satanic proverbs of mistrust and other
               seven sided tales. Don't foul me old Hagrid. Save it for
               dominance. 

               Part B. Fraser:

               Destiny reduced.

               Second proverb.

               Righteous over self doubt.

               Hi everyone. I just wanted to say a big thank you to all
               those involved in any form of environmentalism. Good.  

               Training at camp bee - Day 1: The static town was beginning
               to fall. The nights were getting thin, the air was getting
               long and dangerous. All over nearly. To think it started in
               the little suburb of ash town is a delight. Miss was involved
               from the start, as we might have guessed and a source for
               controversy was thrown over by a complete lack of injustice
               in the first place. 

               Wednesday the 14th and all was abundantly unclear, wine and
               all. Sauce drenched basket full of citizenship. Cynicism was
               our greatest social achievement that year. I mean, I try to
               get along in a town full of static, but what is a girly pants
               to do? Shit stained even. Dress was lay on the grass as per
               usual, the summer was coming back and. 

               W.

               This oasis is drink worthy and I blame YOU. Intoxicating my
               ships supplies is something you don't want to do. I'll
               fucking kill anyone who tries it. Another thing, chunks in my
               wee wee. Not appetizing.

               Have you ever tried the delicacy? I think not. 

               Back stabbing obituary, trench in cavalry situations, words
               over there, a day worth living through, pretending to be
               nice, violent violin system, traffic causing appliance jam,
               another word: sought, tribunal system overthrown. On to wiser
               present creation tools. Tackling the 1st century norm and
               over and over again questioning our youth like we need to be
               constantly told how awful we look in the morning. I put the
               sandwich in like that on purpose, my dinner wine is best not
               served this evening as I have a stitch darling. And pass me a
               cork while your at it. 

               Part B. Tree Folk

               Next life a radio.

               All before them washed away.

               Offal and her parrot child are trying hard to be people of
               substance today. Mother has watched them grow like humans and
               the other children have been put silent. She was very happy
               with the last few days, her roots are growing long and
               penetrating though her skin. The children watch and take note
               with their razor pupils. At the bottom of the branch there
               sits a letter box, tall and proud he likes to be. His self is
               receding like a black carton. The metal sticks inside the
               wine with great injustice and swallows. Brass men have fell
               at the knees of the tree like so many to pass through this
               Shrewsbury Tuesday. A dollop of ash fell a thousand miles an
               hour through the sky and past the satellites. In the
               satellite sat an old grey Dress with an olive pattern all
               over it. It could see the glowing earth out of the five inch
               window and it saw the melted ash town and the trees. I like
               to steer the ship away from the globe sometimes so I can see
               my self in the reflective plains, the three thousand walls of
               the sea and the topping brass whales in the vast pond. Away
               from that, five thousand miles is the complete tin planet
               with one entrance, you'll find that this is actually an
               entrance to yourself. Talk to the several seventy three foot
               pole men holding sticks for the destruction of the 24th
               century earth. Belief. 

















                                  "13th Century Mishap"

               "Denis! Denis dear, where are you?" She was a bitch like a
               million others before her. I question her need to be one and
               I question her sacrilegious homophobic cousin of greed.
               Tonight my dear we dine in fucking hell. The oil you drench
               yourself in is full of disease, the only way through this
               gate is by heartache.

               Today was the last day of the queen in the little town on the
               pole. All the victims awoke with a smile. Can they see what
               their in for? Have they dreamt? Unlikely. For this town is
               full of bastards and bitches and I walk my dog seventy three
               times a day without fail. Witch bitch. Something.

               Denial is like that of greed, you want it like you can't even
               comprehend in your fucking tiny brain. So don't pretend
               mother bitch and stop looking out my crotch little cousin.
               Sea is overflowing for the second time this week. Whale is
               beached. River is damp. Soil is moist. Sister is false.
               Clover is real. Subtle little space craft rises from the ash.
               Helicopter smashes. Bridge over castle, hidden in night. Oh,
               oh, oh you hate me. I like you, can't you see? Stop and ask
               yourself, "Is this a bloody telephone cable of mistrust and
               greed and injustice?". Take your dress off and count to 20,
               pull your knickers down and count to 20, take your hair out
               and count to 50. Open your face with the plowers. Stick
               inside a robotic arm. Put inside a robotic dog. Kill that
               cat! You slag.

               Wednesday, Tuesday and last, but not least, flower day. Cut
               your face with my rusty razor blade and die on my black
               carpet. Sit on my toilet and look at your stupid expression
               like a trooper. Hang. 

               Everyone is copying my skills and if you do you might die
               soon. I will see you through my glass eye. I will see this
               day before it cometh. 

















                                        "Day 7648"

               In the back room of the cupboard there was an envelope.
               Envelope open. We watched the cupboard close and the second
               it did I heard laughter from the back. The wolf jumped out.

               I've told them a thousand times before, but they never seemed
               to listen to what my monster said. He wasn't angry at them
               and he didn't feel the need to throw them out of reality.
               What was the point? All they do all day is shit and stare.
               They stare at the world, they shit in the bog. They don't
               wipe. Tbey walk around with their curls a flame and they
               expect some other schmuck to take the blame. Comb your hair
               you fucking Jew! The others would, Woody Allen do. 

               I made a pact with Jesus today, he gave me breath so I gave
               him time. I know him better than I did yesterday, the fool
               ran quiet. While I take its clothes away I see Jesus frown in
               the corner of my eye. His lips are sealed. I take my
               breakfast with me on the long expedition and somehow I feel
               relieved that no one is around. Jesus follows me and doesn't
               make a sound. On the long path to the summit my clothes start
               to peal away. Jesus lends me his own and I thank him for
               that. Does he expect something in return though? I hope not
               because what can I give that he hasn't given me? Makes
               working the long stretch and effort worth not bothering. So I
               thank him again for his bellowed words of bullshit and on we
               go. Back to hell we fall. Thanks Jesus, you're my brother
               now.

               Saturday was a day full of wisdom and unexpected catastrophes
               in the eye of my new lord. He sits down with me on the
               prickly fell tree. We have a biscuit under the blazing moon
               and relish in old times and some that are soon. Staring at
               the leaves of the skyscraping trees as we go, we find a man.
               A man with a belly full of greed lay in the weeds. "Jesus,
               why you stare?" Said the homeless dwarf. Instead, God
               answered with a lightning bolt to the brain. On we went 

               Sunday was a day of gratuitous solitude. The leaves were
               brown already and our long trip out of the forest was almost
               abrupt.

















                                 Spelling It Out To Miss

               I look at your breasts through my tiny antique binoculars.
               Your face is bland. We sit quite a distance apart in this
               ridiculous church and although we make eye contact we know we
               can't touch. Harry Potter is a cunt by the way! 

               I walk over to you after the God show. I find you a little
               scary with chalk on your face, but what do I care? The season
               is ripe and I need a witch to set me right. Black cellophane
               is covering my basket, inside lies a small version of you.
               You touch you with your golden glove and you bites. "Get
               off!" You say and the creature fades into the night. Once
               again scolded by the moonlight we sit in the dangerous tree
               house, watching the rabbit catcher run past and smiling at
               the cats. 

               The next day I wake in the autumn leaves and a tall steel
               framed woman approaches and blocks the sun from my eyes.
               "How'd you do Miss?" She just stares for a minute and then
               creeks away into the trees. I blow the leaves away with my
               thirty foot jaw and slap the massive rabbit with my claw. I
               start running through the golden wood and my legs grow. My
               head rises into the tree tops as I pick up speed, 20 miles an
               hour, 30 miles an hour and so fucking on. By the time I reach
               80 my brass knee caps give way. They are like radiators to
               touch and it burns my iron claw. Chicken lay weak in the
               bleak blue moon. I pick her up and stroke her crooked spine.
               As I wind her up she croaks so I bury her in the ash. Mud
               soaked up and pulled in my feet, I cry for help and Miss
               comes running back. "Miss, Miss I'm sunken! I sink bitch,
               pull!" She stares again for a while and then grabs my thin
               neck with a solid grasp. Off she runs and on I go.

               Day six and whales are moaning in the morning. I find myself
               among the many ocean creatures that glide past my wrists.
               Each one I slap and they look behind them with a violent
               smile. One turns and bites so I shoot to the surface. There I
               find 3000 boats or more that have been away for days from the
               shore. A pirate pull me up I don't say a word. As I walk the
               decks I see many of the ash people that died when the town
               sunk. Their bodies don't smell of course because my nose is
               steel remember? No? Good.

[
top
]

 

 Script created with Final Draft by Final Draft, Inc.