Bad Bones and the Sag

That old phone don't ring no more and that sweet old sun refuse to shine (at least not on my watch — although the glass ain't top-notch), and that empty bed (how sad a sight!) is as empty as it always was, and much emptier than it once wasn't, almost as if, by force of miracle, a cast has spelled my doom, no matter how persuasive my offer (or how slick my hair-gel) —: full of every waxed positive, abounding with compliments — of the stonewash nature —, and even, on occasion, with a fistful of fresh, fat cash (though not in the way you think — if you indeed do — nor in any logic-based way), --- No, like, as it is, I've told, when the skin settles off your bones, so too does any chance of peeling off knee-highs, and so too does, by rights, health and entire happiness: whole happiness — as in, round the Horne — is full of itself back in those less-hunched, less-lessoned days of yore (and mine). But what's the use of spilling milk over it? How could that improve it?

It can't, quoth a new paragraph, nor can it hope to improve anyone within ear's range, --- Virtually it is but a truffle:— hard to swallow, harder to afford, but overall distasteful (couldn't we learn a lesson from that? —: and, in hope, we can't be lessoned by it). But what of it? Let's get the swimmers off and leap into the ice, like René and his alumni have always told and taught us, leaning, as they were, on life-to-the-fullest.