Behind the Old Bus
By The Toasty-Fried Co-Op

    The other way from the river hasn't diverged for ever. We're wandering the galaxies. Guess what? We always travel by riverboat and never travel alone. Someday, we might swim.
     More than ever, we become intoxicated. The intoxication became suspiciously frequent. We sang;
      "Behind the old bus, where doggies go,
             Galaxies swing, but never alone,
                   For eons agone, tomorrow has flown."
Poetry gives new meaning to doggies!
      Dusty porpoises fly while penetrating deep, unexplored origins. Why?
     Footsore penguins wearing military flip-flops stormed into our riverboat while intoxicated; "Damn the torpedoes!"
     Meanwhile, back in the galaxy (NGC-834), calculated evil happiness expanded. Unfortunately for us.
     Having no other means of communication, we rode camel-back, begrudgingly. Singing vicariously across plateaus that grew, our patience was also begrudging. Valleys peaked while sprouting pansies.
     "Behind the old bus, doggies flying,
            let's follow with porpoises prying."
Kittens purring, doggies not. We sang another verse, tunelessly;
   "Behind green peaking valleys live dusty porpoises frying,
        while chariots' gilded steeds undenying.
            Fried green tomatoes lying with chagrin,
                Footsore penguins crying over gin."

Salut! "Singing never solved anything."

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