Quid pro quo Clarice.  The money is gone up your nose. Pip pop tip-top running rabid sideways on the sidewalks singing kill kill kill the poor along with Biafra. Paint them taking tainted terror and feeding the pretty demons.  Gift the shift of religion to the little lambs you are recounting the sordid legend of political Zelda for.  See the whites of their eyes and frown down upon the frailty.  My finger gun blasts a hole in your understanding as you sit shaking out the burnings we’re too cowardly to give a name to. Ascertain the relevant odd job backlog push file you didn’t know you needed. Needless to needle the maggots of Disneyland with low brow humour as we have to ask ourselves what in the actual fuck is wrong with this place. It’s the slow simmer of the devil’s sommelier hosting a tasting of Hell’s finest Cabernet. If…