Ins and Outs
There were some ins, some outs so, what was it about? Thrashing around theories concerning motive, intent, they were hell-bent on sorting this out. The first to take the podium was Mss. Tilda, who went by the name Martha. She asked point blank, no rigmarole, no fudging the harshness of her words by adding little adlibs whose only purpose was to distract and bemuse, “Cowards!,” she slammed her hand down like a gavel in Judge Judy’s room of circus antics, “How come we get this… this… balderdash of cockamamie nonsense when a straight capture of the subject intended would have served just fine?” She was followed by old man Jack, the king of the crop, the cultivator of fine herbs and spices. “Gentlemen and ladies, please remain seated until I’ve finished my dissertation in regards to the image before you. Yes it sucks. Yes, if the bozo who presented it with all the dander a ‘beaut ‘n force-1’ could muster, how come the kid didn’t get his ass kicked, his horse held for ransom?” It was towards the end of the evening when all the lager had been consumed and still no one had come to the rescue. A hush hung over the wilted proceedings, a pin could be heard if a pin one had. Lane McMercy, a raptor without wings turned to a slumping Dan O’Connelly and said with a sigh, “I think I’m going home”. He did. So did the rest. It was an evening soon forgotten. It was a smudge on the lens.
Ins and Outs
There were some ins, some outs so, what was it about? Thrashing around theories concerning motive, intent, they were hell-bent on sorting this out. The first to take the podium was Mss. Tilda, who went by the name Martha. She asked point blank, no rigmarole, no fudging the harshness of her words by adding little adlibs whose only purpose was to distract and bemuse, “Cowards!,” she slammed her hand down like a gavel in Judge Judy’s room of circus antics, “How come we get this… this… balderdash of cockamamie nonsense when a straight capture of the subject intended would have served just fine?” She was followed by old man Jack, the king of the crop, the cultivator of fine herbs and spices. “Gentlemen and ladies, please remain seated until I’ve finished my dissertation in regards to the image before you. Yes it sucks. Yes, if the bozo who presented it with all the dander a ‘beaut ‘n force-1’ could muster, how come the kid didn’t get his ass kicked, his horse held for ransom?” It was towards the end of the evening when all the lager had been consumed and still no one had come to the rescue. A hush hung over the wilted proceedings, a pin could be heard if a pin one had. Lane McMercy, a raptor without wings turned to a slumping Dan O’Connelly and said with a sigh, “I think I’m going home”. He did. So did the rest. It was an evening soon forgotten. It was a smudge on the lens.