Byline: Dance with You

Buford Youthward

The deadliest weapon in modern warfare is the handshake.

Faux filled and awful, fearful sonic barrier breakers get a hold of classified information for reasons unknown.

Public school kids living on whiskey and rice krispies try to make the internet look so yesterday while my broadband dreams won't go away.

Templates of creativity like so much processed custard, come down to some hot mess in a dirty dress. Twisted and gyrated in sensual fashion, a drama in three acts.

Comedic and tragic texts correlate in someone's reality, narrowing meaning to symbol. Process oriented mediums derive beauty by means of making myths service emotion. An impetus divine.

Sign up today. Expect no interest until 2009. Stand by when blending form and content organically to create an emotional and intellectual whole.

Gatekeepers of folklore, custodians of the myth, graffiti writers scream below the noise. Down at tough guy central, noble characters keep their secrets, hold their tongues, seize the silence.

I'm happy to justify meaning and happy just to dance with you. Jamming with Ginger and Eddie murdering and dodging lyrics that some bar band defies while screaming a werewolf bop.

Gaming her heart during nocturnal hush, soldiers of the republic stand by you. Ex villains and civilians think, oh how they think all about me.

Attacks from three-headed monsters shield off dwelling upon your expenses. The tricky part is not allowing bitterness to set in and still finding a way to become your event.

I've been tryin' to blow up for the past minute and a half. I thought I learned arithmetic but can't figure out your math.

Don't tell me what you're thinking, tell me what you did. Then shake my hand.

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