Supper's Ready
Walk, no, run to your nearest Tarheel Tavern, where jocularity meets ribaldry, and they bowl a few matches, inwardly, then cacophonize with the pitchbend, only to realize they are none the wiser for their serendipitude. That said, a monkeyboy WILL wax territorial when foisted upon the plank of their own phyrric defeat, wobbly from the fount, cornheaded and lipless, moonglade blindness, the death of Baba Ghanooj. All within the outfangthief of our Taverner, John, his whale, his Hovhanessian, Khachaturianistic Rubiyat, opened to page one, candle blown, flashes of lightning.
Enter the tavern.
