Alex Jonz-Joned-Jones is a communicator.
A great communicator? Who is to say?
Does a great communion cater, crator, master priest abate, bator, abaittor, dealing in blood of the lamb, the long horn, the kid with a kick, a kid a goat, not remote, though radio waves are
Okay an Alex, named after a Great One, Alexander the Great, not a bard, not a weeper, nor a screamer, but one, a student of Aristotle, of science and poetry, and so, fine Alex can tell of receiving wisdom, received wisdom, and transmitting it, as the mouth piece,
Plastic mouthpiece,
Made of– plastic. A specific plastic, BAKELITE.
A plastic bard for a plastic babe in a song sonnet of plastic sentiment of word and tonality.
On a plate (eeeccchhhieei! oooo!) was some bread and wine.
Alex Jonz-Joned-Jones came down the aisle, in perforated splendor. The dang church, at that moment, was designed for echo, for resonance. He had to love Barbie. She was a chic, a filet a’ chee, chee, chee… Jones, playing bones, the living can do that,
Went FLAT.
Spam of Human Affection 
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