…..It wasn’t the well that we fell into, but the wailing that followed, like the ghost of sleepy hollow, a foul stench from whence our bellows howled, all of which is time to swallow, we have to work on our snarl, we still the male inmate forced into a girdle, wear the name Merdle, missed a few hurdles, skin expected to be tough as a turtle’s, but every now and then a nerve is touched, then to hell with shoes with taps, and combs for naps, cause we’re tired of scraps, we build platforms for complaint, before they can blink, but they lack substance, a synopsis of the synthetic group synthesis to come, stop confusing the situation and pass out the rum. Self diluted with activism’s is the new pattern, it’s algorithms are perfected from deep within, cause we died back then, now we’re just a spin off of him.