Is He Singing, or is it Phlegm?

He's telling me to buy. He must know about the unfortunate lack of cookie continents. The guy who once lived in the attic is stroking strings, but not with the butchered innards of Beethoven, so this must not be Nebraska or a see-saw. I can't even understand what he's telling me now, but I think the rythm of the phlegm hitting the bucket represents something. And speaking of rythm, I can now hear the backyard guy who should be taken very seriously now has seven or so baseball bats...It's so unfortunate...Nebraska...He's now asking how many times I'm gonna call the end result of his efforts the end results of some sort of illness...I apologize, but then again....Nebraska. It's better than trash that even the other trash producers smear their ketchup on; it's better than. It's better than discarded orange peels at the very, very, very bottom, slowly flattened to orange paper and then to fragmented crumbs. Even stepped on by a worm (a really big one that milk made me stop thinking about).

But then again, you can salvage all sorts of cookies. And who doesn't enjoy baseball bats? He was singing, and the phlegm comes from someone who wore a shirt.