Wow, I´m sick of doubt. Livin´ in light of certain South, cruel bindings. The servants have the power, dog-men and their mean women, pulling poor blunkets over our sailors. I´m sick of dour faces, staring at me from T.V. tower. I want roses in my garden bower, dig? Royal babies, rubbies, must now replace aborted strangers in the mud. These mutants, blood meal for the plant that´s plowed. They´re waiting to take us into the severed garden. Do you know how pale and want on thrillful comes death on a strange hour, unannounced, unplaned for? Like a scaring over friendly guest you´ve brought to bed. Death makes angels of us all, and gives us wings where we had shoulders, smooth as raven´s claws. No more money, no more fancy dress, this other kingdom seems by far the best, until it´s other jaw reveals incest and loose obedience to a vegetible law. I will not go. Prefer A Feats Of Friends to the Giant family.