From the larder of my portmanteau. I address the coming of the beast. Rocking the wooden horse, wearing shoe lifts from Abercrombie & Fitch. Beating a brass spittoon with a gewgaw in the asylum of my mind's cabaret. Scratching at my feet of raven clay, tapping on cataracts of the toad's rigor mortis. Whetting my appetite for the soul's corset line, Sparring me no garter.
Raising my hackles. Dressed in a johnny gown and chomping at the bit as froth drips from the hair of a frog's chinny-chin-chin. But my toast is dry and the host is sopping in the gravy's redeye. The fire in the hearth's acapella screaming. "No wasting the gruel with the devil's Tabasco."
Galvanizing my peccadilloes with a punk band. Applying cosmetics and coming out with something spanking new. Inhaling gin to keep me afloat, as Charon plays skipper to the scow. "Ferry me an olive, but not wash my sins."