When Oscar, and I am not sure Julian Assange is. Or Ed Snowden, or twinkel of the toes, or righteous indignant sniff below,
“Do you really want to get into this?”
“Do you want to get down, to bestow snow?”
“To let it sink in, melting, to green?
“To rain on a Parade Magazine?”
Sunday addition, with the funnies, folded in, a brief briefcase, to hold an insurance agent’s brief glance, the sniffies on a the briefs of a rock or soccer star, or melon, or Carribean glance.
Desert Isle, eat the berries, flock to the shock, of a mayday momma, a spire, a momma getting ire, a testament to what man and baby, squalering maybe baby, Sunday edition, to a wit and wisdom of a want add, accidentally printed as an editorial, a tutorial, an inaugural, a zip file, an entire forest, jungle, mowed to the ground, a man’s home is his castle, and his home grown, is his lawn, his grass, his NYT, complete with sidewalk, dialect prompt block.
Spam of Human Affection 
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