by Old-Nick
@ 2008-05-30 - 14:56:40
Now are the trousers of our discontent, made into glorious curtains by Mrs Miggins poodle, Fluffchuck.
As the peas of solemnity role through the ventricles of ours souls, we tock, tick, tock and hop to the finish line of the working week.
It is after all, better to have loved, lost and shuffled the cards than to have played a bagpipe duet with George Fornby in the support slot at a Motorhead gig my little pickles.
The Cheese of time grows mould on our shoulders. The Glistening potentiality of the weekend blows us French kisses.
And the pubs are open.
2008-05-30 @ 15:00