It was a story of mischief. There was a cold night of silence, nothing stirring but a symphony of clowns. The streets glimmer from the moon in a cascade of puddled earth. It was she that was standing there; standing still once again.
Hop like a misfit
Hot like a Triscuit
Do you want to make it?
Or do you want to mix it?
Do you want to hear the calls of the mischief?
Keep it on pause,
And I’ll keep it raw
I’d walk through the valley to fix it
Keep it on simmer
The heat will make fish sticks
Don’t keep so quick with your lips, kid
This rain moves booties and biscuits.