Ghetto Spa

 
after Major meltdown,

the Principal problem

is General Chaos.

Figuring out 1 squared, Private setting, and convincing ducks to row, and

frankly, they’re not the best

oarsmen.

Their wheelhouse is impersonating weeping bovine on Snap Chat
 
 
(moo-wah)

I’ve heard, and

the squeeze on Colonel Mustard never helps, ‘cause

then there’s Poupon everything.

(Grey areas, you know?)

Still another

Chief concern

is playing ketchup

–ever tried to improv vinegar?

(no way!)

It’s plain awkward if someone’s bought the Ranch, and that’s disregarding the obvious entirely:

You need a knife to make it go over well,

and it’s Buddha bitter, and that’s

with sour grapes dba

wine.

(Yah…way!)

please imagine or perform pattycake gesture twixt chin & chest, and

insert appropriate punctuation & metric footies here

/——————————————————————————-/

(I’ll wait)

…

I’ll…sew, but hint that parentheses might be in order.

(ahem)

…

check out those stiches you’re in, and good to go-go boot is we?

(not a shoddy shoe for metric foot in tatted sock)

H-a-a-l-l-l writey.

It’s the specter of respect!

(not Phil)

ahh.

(boo, and bless me)

That’s the Crowning grace.