I've asked all the faculty to come tackle your majesty... at the hit factory. I'm anxious to see who's firing casualties to be a match for me and if they factored in third degrees? There's more acid in my PhDs, so don't leave me lonely with Mowgli's when I'm deciduously delicious among budding infants in the Holiest of holies.
Imagine if I happened to sneeze? Stop. Freeze. At ease... police. I've got a niece that needs me not to be deceased. My pants are creased with elbow grease to move heat through the Middle East, making maple leaves out of make-beliefs without blowing trees.
I prance on ants in a stance of arrogance, because I can't stanza romance... in a trance, I dance a lot, like Sir Lancelot, on his way to France or Camelot and I cannot stop. I keep telling enemies and friends they better use both hands (and rocks), to hold me down... to hold me back... and don't tell me that I won't be back-to-back, comeback kidding.
Few know what I'm doing after Thanksgiving... gifting broken glass from pole-vaulted ceilings because focused dreaming shatters chatter and faulty feelings. My coattails curtail the last nerve endings of humble beginnings by streaming spiritual lottery winnings... blessings, that leave people guessing, but remind them of celestial kings and championship rings.
This soul yearns for wings as it burns through another pair of shoestrings. Where can I find the truly extraordinary things?