An AK-47 claiming he’s the delivery boy and a knock-kneed tuba tuned to the key of gloom.
Bad weather, lousy music, and World War III bearing a bouquet of bombs.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and a clogged toilet doing a crappy Bob Dylan impression.
A half-dressed serial killer wanting to slip into something less comfortable.
Banging on my front door: droughts, diseases, and all the bad poems I’ve ever written coming back to haunt me.
RichRant 