He said, we're all gonna get it when Muva gets home. Well, I am poor, so I am not too proud to beg the question: if she's knot home, where else could she be? And if she be elsewhere, how can she still be Muva? These are questions that used to keep me up at night, until I found old answers and remembered new questions. Doesn't help me sleep any better, cause the batter's too thick after being left out in the rain. I googoled the recipe, had it, lost it, had it again, but forgot to scale my weights and ended up on the dense side, a supermassive slab of wonky chocolate, golden eggs, and hole what flowers. They told me it tasted good, but I didn't believe them. They told me to eat some, but still didn't believe them. They told me to have some, so I finally did, had and hold, cubes unfold, crosses laid flat on a hill, a fool indeed, horses becoming the mount, cavalry becoming something else, elsewhere and when, crosstime trafficking in elicited pleasures and ill-gained gots, get got good, or so we thought. We were wrong, somehow, even after reading the answer from the back of a phone booth. For a time, call good. When She didn't answer, we skipped the male voice and went write four the source, four minus fo incertain leaves Ur, drifting down yelloworangepurplered, these colours don't rime but they don't reason either, or they do but the page was unintentionally left blank, so we scribbled the margins and tried to make a quick buck, found a slow doe instead, green the colour of my old love's hair, forest green, mining greed, digging misty tunnels in quest of an antecedent evil: the second ring to rule everything else, especially men. Cause they need it. Especially when Muva gets home.
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