Delving into the pits of cardinality, poetry often thrives wherever the wind blows.
The clock strikes seven as the little men walk up and down
and down and up as the ding dong keeps on donging
DONG
DING
DONG
DING
DONG
DING
DONG
All which was to be ready was ready at this time
the men gathered up their spirits of glamour and glory, and
entered a whirlpool of ecstasy that only Reese Witherspoon could emulate.
Stretching out their foreboding heads, linked arms united them in their struggle
and with outstretched legs they greatly exuberated the limbs on their bodayz.
One by one armiess and leggies began to pop off like sea monkeys in a rave.
Only torsos remained as the clock struck 8 into their spirits and souls
DING
DOOOOOOOOONG
The rest was not needed.
All was still.
Only torsos remained.
:BBBBBBB
