Hey. That's a word.
This is a bunch of words.
You know what else is neat?
They're brown and swirly and cool.
Sometimes they smell like cinnamon.
Other times, I run out of things to say, so I make up words.
The snail climbs the rock.
To the tippity top.
And there it stays.
King of the flock.
Or at least it pretends to be, up so high. How it wishes it were a bird.
Its thoughts are rudely interrupted by a crow who snatches it up and gobbles it down.
Along with its crown.
Which gets lodged in the throat.
I'm ending this on a bit of a sour note.