Old Memory Blues

Perkiomen washed out like the linen case when the bleach went missing and the rebel papers bled like fleas. I-Jackal, the new blue-highway boggie-man, in steel-tipped boots flogged the wrangler for $.35 and fillled the well. Perkiomen vomits logs - bends the prison gates. Old Henry-Old Hitchcock, keeper of the canyon trade and river rafter, bet the farm on his beloved blue scorpion and bit the dust when the tourists came. Roll creek and assign the armies to their posts. Malynda, in lace high-heels and rapid lake moans, plays strumpet in the moon and glitters herself for she is still a child. Creek - nothing and going still. Build bike paths and the people will refrain from spitting on you.