The waves grew arms so they could wave, digging into the dirt’s size so it could get its mology & its salty quantum mechanics caused by rumbling wheels o’ the president ’twas waving @ as it rode by.
The president was a bug on a buggy & it bugged me. That’s why I shot its hat off–to prove that there was ‘nother shooter inside me & that I was an inside job inside the want ads adding to my wants.
Then the president had me executed with its execution branch, & then drank my soda, which was my blood.
But I carried on.