Joyride with Stick

Words like roadkill pinch the otherwise robust vocabulary feverish with frightened firsthand golden acres of scar paint, ain't you the fance king of staves singing my heart out of the woods. You know I know loyalty stays pinned under the threatened glyph supposed to transport you to another blue intelligence. 

Astride that half of an episode epistemologically logical as a joyride with stick figure you bleed on our own time and sculptors you know would rather just be given a block of soap and a pen knife rather than be zapped and trapped in a house with conversation stray. It's all about escape to a Bretonian free space laced with spun honey and a face that breathes you back to the tutor who told you answers to no questions at all, but you carved notes of your own birdhouse from extra wood you fit to function but no birds wanted in any more than you avoiding eyes of the predators who feign affection but just want bowlfuls of fresh picked gossip.

Feign then mean escape from this whatever you call in thrall a Chaucer legacy the Middle English residing in your nether recollection brimming with bounce to liberate you from logic pawned off on lambs once kissable now resistable for their lack of traction in matters too blistery to the arc of heart.