Sweaty tenrec palms in a pool of Castle cold heat,
slipping feet wade afloat in miniature shoe boats,
like our beloved croc hidden in a moat,
ravaging and ripping our Butler nerves
drinking tailcock soaked, rigid curves
sipping slow, set in place simply to disturb
and distract away from the right track,
pushing and pulling in different AB directions,
with every llama and sheep located at a different intersection.
His Whisky Lordish chops locked away, cast to solitary confinement
placed behind a sporadic,Castle wall of silence.
White noise, bagpipe music to the ears of a lost Butler boy,
living in a lost world, on the search for his Mamya joy.
Angry Mad50s outbursts in quick succession,
apologetic verbs accompany the Polar tenor section,
swift and low heartfelt Nonna moans
carry the regretful tones,
surfing through Slinky air waves,
sticks to Lady A's ear drum,
crashing and colliding through every bone.
Felt the sound tingle, through every hair in my DTC nose
down across each wrinkly toe.
A sincere change of maggiebee heart,
reaching with nungate bionic arms,
searching, never to be alone.
"Grab our cold dead hands, make us feel alive, like a croccie man.
And we'll lead each other to a new start. And don't fear,
my words are genuine Mamya dear. Just show us you'll stay,
and we'll never astray, from Castle love through progression
and not through obsession."