Thirteens Fredge

Cruel is the night and hell is cold.

A cow or other bird.

A naught, a cross, or so I’m told.

But I don’t give a turd.

Hey, ho, hey, ho, we’re not gonna drown.

The stairs are black and bloodied, too.

Have a pudding pie?

But our hearts most gallant grew.

Oh, that I can’t deny.

In a landing the sun should shine.

The butter runs its course.

Oh, please accept this thanks of mine.

We'll sing this song in Morse.

 It cannot be overstated that Nephilians sang along but whispered at the chorus. In their deepest niches they felt a small prick. Languidly Nephilians reached for super soakers and sharp pencils but in a flash, comparable to drawing breath upon seeing a brown cat on a field of daffodils, the killing was in full tilt. Much sorrow and gay songs are sung about that day. Peesfools have never been wetter or more perforated. Would there was a hero of sable dignity and ears of harrow. But. No, in the stream of banana wine emptied the pink blood of castanets. Add radish. Honestly Seth was halfway through his troutburger when he heard the news and three quarters would not make a whole. So he ate in the small hours of rain. A pickle is a pickle and a sickle is a sickle. That is not to say that gease fly. You go ask Peesfools about that and they will laugh in your face. None remember them except Seth. But Seth's memories are in the undercarriage of a flight bound for Krackle-On-Grass.