Been a dry month. Few words for fewer ideas 03:54, January 25, 2012 (UTC)

Plenty to here’s to, but nothing to here’s with

A couple of drops, and now she’s told “This is a dry county”

So she shot him

Dry air and dryer spit. Bound on a track because she’s bound to be trouble. Lime green nails go well with drinks that go with similar citruses

There’ren’t any heroes. They’d only be villains if they came to her arm

Had their way

There’s a train. Self preservation aligns to run the track and twisted in a knot

This interruption is to let be known that the speed of a locomotive is enough to raise a pretty lady’s dress if she’s laying the right way. Not that it’s something to be observed. But it’s something thought that should be known

What she’s observed is what isn’t known: that in the flailing of a pretty lady’s dress and the racket of a train and the wheel’s spitting dust through sunlight one finds that while their face might look to some omnipresent observer less odd then at first it might appear

City lights. Traffic lights. Car lights. Head lights. Back lights. Night lights. Flood lights. Flesh lights. With cred to Fairlight

It knocks the living daylights out

Whitewashed

Eyes like a doe, survived without respite

Shot up to dry

… What were you trying to cast for interpretation? / I don’t know. It needed something. We all need something or another / That wasn’t it / I guess not. Only time will tell / Shut up. Do you have to speak cliché? / No / Then stop it