Song of the doggy gods and mosquitoes.

Song of the doggy gods and mosquitoes. Say and pray ! I said loudly the hymn of the gone winds in the narrow pathes of the past ! What did I said ?To whom, those prayers ? Pickin’ up a song in the muddy remembrances, I just don’t know who is this person hearing prayers for free. No money ! Just talk ! Special offer ! Mosquitos get no guns, because they really don’t taste dead blood ! Cry and buy !I did ! Yes indeed ! Thought I had no money ! There’s a way on sad shops of the town, son near, so near…And I cried, for your tears will wet again vaccuum pockets of my worn-out trousers ! (another one is in the wardrobe. For rainy sundays). If thou goest to the North country church, please pray a hound who died a long ago, for He once was a doggy god of mine Look and cook ! I did look at my heart, I cooked it as a stew, and I smocked my soul as a fatty saveloy ! This is the best way to build a tarry cloud of mere melancoly ! Saveloys are cheap and my heart has to be. My soul sings bluesy rhymes, but for instance, I don’t care. Mosquitos get no guns, ‘cause they really don’t taste dead blood ! Kill the skills ! I dip my skills in the the deep kettle of cattle’s mentality, cravin for submission, because I was a man ! And they did fry in the creamy oil of red hot lamentations ! A kind of delight for happy few, isn’t it ? If thou goest to the North country church, please pray a hound who died a long ago, for He once was doggy god of mine Sell your tells ! I sold some prayers, written on a pub’s chair, when I was too busy and drinking bitter beer. Draught. And there was a woman at the bar, with gloomy lips, smoking cigarettes and saying nothing. Absolutely nothing ! She was living in her busy silence, and smoking straight heavy tar tobacco from oriental countries, manufactured in London by gentle workers, because they don’t know how to do something else than work, and work again. Mosquitos get no guns, ‘cause they really don’t taste dead blood ! Loose your past ! I killed old hours and they stand herel, in front of me, rumagging guts and bones of the old time gone wrathes ! Don’t cry for me ! I do it better ! I’m a professional, you know ? If thou goest to the North country church, please pray a hound who died a long ago, for He once was doggy god of mine Scrabble some muck !Once upon a time I lived in the density of bad evils, and hardly made love because people said that I must love, as having funds to offer to beggars, crying on the rove ! Oily muck is soft as cheese, and sometimes so greasy that you laugh and cry meanwhile you pour it on the whole day’face ! Mosquitos get no guns, ‘cause they really don’t taste dead blood ! Move the doves off the rove There’s no peace on this path of mine ! Who’s next, to be myself ?This other, or the same ? Limited company, anyone else bet me, and this woman, and that woman, urging to say words, words, words, just to be in love for comfort and mellowness ! If thou goest to the North country church, please pray a hound who died a long ago, for He once was doggy god of mine. Smash and spread ! Muck is not so sticky as mollasses, alas. So we need sugar to slow down this bitterness of nowaday’s being-here fashions ! That’s a pity ! Stick it on the wall ! Give it to the cat ! After five, no tea-time, after hours, day’s over…And the night sometimes feels as heavy than so stiff. Stout darkness ! O my life ! Mosquitos get no guns, ‘cause they really don’t taste dead blood ! Shake and break : I feel shook up, with fancy, the old shenanigans of faith and truth ! Filling my brain with reason, and loosy argumentatoin became a kind hobby, a fair past-time, a good habbit and this day’over ! If was busy ! Too much ! Good bye ! If thou goest to the North country church, please pray a hound who died a long ago, for He once was doggy god of mine.