Robert maxxxs out and declaims, from watery naked grave:
“Good God, Ghislaine, you mean so much to me. While a toddler you yodeller, scream like a mountain and I want to move in to London, a flat, me a sharp, and me your daddy, seeing in you full potential, as you flow, a rainbow, a cascade, a fisher of men, a bleak siloh of “prretty birds” because little flight birds, tagged on the ankle to go James Bond.
“Your Jeffrey, cool mountain, plantain, kid rock, because parking lot ain’t no park, and — lot, got no slot, you love him as James Dean, And I got to love you, to go snorkel, to bathe my breasts, my tits, my soul, my check out lists, my
Baby, soul, digging deep, old Oprie you bought your admission with your beat, price of a ticket, in Yankee Confetti, in Jefferson Davis, eagle equality, evasive, enslaving, waving confounding confederation flag soul Nashville on the proud soul beat– you can get in, regardless of morals, a camoflavored cameleon of post-Camelot,
Lot got no slot, but you do, baby soul, don’t wriggle or snrokrell out.
Spam of Human Affection 
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