Approaching the moon with balloons

Hearts set aflutter with the butter and oils by the camp side fire. Fluttering and drooling with the rotation of each turn on the spit. And there it is, there be it with a warm glow about its very essence. Hold the core and squeeze for the juices as there is only a need for more when the tasting begins.

Sweet tasting as it will be and as it ever is to be. For this is what reams a seemingly paltry beat.

Vile filth consumes the gallery, a flock and gaggle of gaping maws with scratching heads. Scratching on the backs of their heads for the lice which fails to find cleaner lodgings. Sinking in with each succession as the wake into the night brings about a most glaring focus of the sun.

No sun then at this time of night. No sun at any time of night if a night be normal with the resting sun taking a break from burning the skin and flaking the eyeballs of the worshippers under its teat. Only the cookie clear curt nature of the moon with a cheesy grimace for those who walk when others sleep.

Squeeze it plenty. Squeeze it hard. Squeeze like there is no tomorrow.