Sunday, October 16, 2005

His Excellency

His Excellency Monsignor Tribo stopped in mid-flight and slipped
He fell on his rump, and everybody well-bloody knows
(and if they don't, they should)
Just how difficult it is to stand on the clouds right after a prat fall of such nature.
This material we're made out of is nothing more than a facade
Animals without opposing thumbs and the capability to lie to themselves
are way better equipped to withstand the elements of natural selection
The Monsignor won't endure decompression without his genitals exploding
into millions of bloodstained and asymmetrical fragments. We must reckon, however,
that once his rotting flesh goes off, he will have another huge set of problems in his hands.

Ah! because physical pain is nothing when compared to deep remorse
See if you can touch the devil's nose with your own without burning yourself, no one can
—God knows I've tried —
Go ahead and leave the house at once without being seen by your own destiny.
Good luck!
Play her a prank and hide from her, behind the secrets which have made you paranoid
Sing her a lullaby and whisper softly in her good ear, tell her that everything is going to be alright
tell her not to worry about you because your underwear is clean and you're not lacking food
Monsignor Tribo talked to you and he promised you money, he said you have a great future
ahead of you (and behind you). Those were his words, not mine. He wasn't joking when he said it, either.
Good luck!, you're going to need it.

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