I had zebra, going June and Ward Cleaver, going the beave, for in suburbia, please ya, there are cemetaries, at the end of the road, who heave a big load, of dead, silent, streaming
The dead are not talkative, thank the good God for that, for if they were, as a Talking Head, a dismal superstar who how right you are, wears a TV wig, not a diadem, though we watch in our undies, our Tuesday Weld or Wednesday– We wed next Wednesday– or is that designated Sunday, or June
Zombies don’t sprint. Neither did Frankenstein.
Frankenstein loved that little girl he crushed.
Oh God how I loved “Frankie”, and I tell the truth: I mourned for him as much as I mourned the little girl. This is probably because I have crushed flowers, moss, morning dew, wept decrepit through delicate garden, begging probably females their pardon, but Frankie, frankly, lira or lyre, could have swooped that man behind mirrors, out to the little girl, cuddled her, loved her, heard what she wished, related to her, told her that stuff wasn’t good for her, and been right about that.
Spam of Human Affection 
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