NormTrottings and snottings
Don’t bet on any one word standing for any one thing. Words are bought and sold and transferred as easily as coin. Coin is only worth what we believe it to be worth. Getting all serious is a field, not mine. Watch a canter in action and compare to a jogger. The former will try to give you the run around, run you ragged; have you on the hop with your foot in your mouth. Fists down. Anything they say, they think has veracity for their capacity is for atrocity. They run gently on your granny's head, sharpening her bones into spikes to put in your drink that are attached to string. They’ll wind you up, dear friends. Wrestle with a canter and you’ll be in banter with a hamper full of wankers. Bank on their duplicity. Bet on your own, it’s in you too. Their teeth are stained in lies and the gaseous river flows from the mouth to flood the plain. We’ve all had our run ins with bad vibes. Don’t be a dill; do recharge your batteries with some time spent in the country. Skip on the spot, it’s no means to get around. Walking is taught. Tight will be your shorts when you least expect it. Breasts in bras belong in binoculars. Out of them you’ll fall off the twig. Witnessing a canter arouses suspicions about the human race. I’ve seen it in myself first so I’ll recognise it in you. I only have to jog my memory of my own inner machinery to know yours, you fucking canters. Jogging is conducive to good health, you sham. Poo will be your cue to open your cock-hole. Say ah. Blppbplpbpblbpbl. I really should have passed at this post. Canter and jogger: equal and opposite.
