Hail Like A Fist

I'm shivering and you're chattering, stupid global warming, the sand still goes back to Mama like radio to ads and payola, even in the land of the dishes; world land trashcan, and the chorus goes "whatever". We'll scrape it up somewhere else. Fine white granules of faux ever, on the softness scale of more human, hard bruxing deal. With it, not pity. Mohs scratched it with a: your oh my god fantasy for him here.