The King of Something

About The King of Something

Mr. Something, I may not approve of your methods but the way my stomach churns with the grace of a drunken butterfly cannot be ignored. It is as if you have squeezed my cerebellum a tad to tight and my legs regress into two, dangling, gelatinous masses. The usual modus operandi has slowly metamorphosed into blundering bellows of intentional provocations. I do not know how I can go on with the feeling the embrace of you just once. I’ve been pondering a non-pontificating ways to ask you this but I cannot tell if, in your eyes, I am a persona non grata and I am the best at extemporizing my feelings. But I feel I need, what? You’re in the middle of an investigation? While you were listening to me the chalk outline was lapped up as if a dog had just waltzed on to the crime scene? Escher Ichia had just complained about how (c)old it is? I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re speaking to me about. The day you make sense will be the Elizabethan Frothinghams condemn a sea of scathing poets.