At night's moot point frozen fingers crackle our horror and we assemble in the sheer hell of it. We dress in the wardrobes of others natjacked by bumpkings danked in The Styx. As the bomb alarm crank its hymn, he is armoured in old, French pine and I in mourning melamine. While she absent herself. Oh, Tamara hear our chuntergrunt, see us muster half-skank, but stay with fondle heart in sleep-feign ; where she curse the monster lie of no smooch without fire. But whether breath insist or refrain, Tamara stack up her oddlies and kiss the pillow again.

                                         KLOSET ENNYMI

                   a  KLOSET/RUGRAT  production