LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR.

Settin' the pace.

Liquor the lips and thy secret shall be known. The trick would seem to be -- liquor the rest of the body, instead. Imagine that -- a cold heart and some warm hands. Taken on face value, there is little difference, afterall, between a Metrobus and a Succubus. A deeper examination reveals that one never comes on time, while the other only comes at night. Whereas the Porcubus is leaving, right now, for the Congressional District, HA-HOOGA. Listen to Charles Mingus and fly Aer Lingus Lingus Lingus Lingus Lingus, and, dern it, don your Porcupine Hat, gnat. "Talk about the greats" someone always wants to talk about the "greats" as if it's a condition. Comin' down from the grates, "Jimmy's in there, comin' down from the grates," and he is, in there, in the closet, sleeping on his feet. Eights, of course, are one rotation away from infinity. Or, if you've got a particular kind of eight, then, infinicky. O, Bored Walk of my Water Front, O, Boardwalk of my Moist Facade, HA-HOOGA. A furlough, Jack, is an economic readjustment, not the foxpiece worn round the ankles, and a furlong is a horse-race discrepancy. Rankle, ankle, angle, wrangle. Don't know 'bout you, but I need a nip just for everyday tongue-twisters, and other twisters, I need to reach out and touch liquor, since its spirits are distal, still, a distillation, dot, dot, dot, in the Northern Sky.