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Pastor

The bronzed bowling ball gutted the craned onion wafer while
Black Pastor reached over onto his side for a 7-Up.
He paused, indolently, a sonic crescent adorning his neckbutt.
Searchingly, the reasoned one surfaced along the brindle rocks by
the Irony Coastline.

A ward burden on his Julip Pine.
The Pastor sighed and rolled over to his left belly.
Hurriedly, now, the silver birds marbled their soot uppers,
with dispatch and craned elegance. The reasoned one watched,
cautious and opulent, spinning a trilogy of farthing flickers
in his little red note-book which sat on a turnip mound, uplifted
by a bustle cove.

And then the heavy ball came to rest next to the sleeping doughnut
crate, as the Black Pastor shimmied smoothly along the ground,
oblivious to the senior magic of the birds and only dimly aware
of the penetrating gaze of the reasoned one: he who lifts his head
slowly while the wafers whisk by on their way to the parsely plant.