Bruno and Zeus stay howling.
Da blast
skyrockets me towards Pluto
where I crash land.
One blue-tongued plutonian
points at
plenty kanes, all named Lars
in der bebadeez.
Dey ski past.
Shoots, I follow dem.
Seconds pass, I ripped
from da blue tundra
by one nodda wail.
I spock da ambulance
speeding from da North Shore.
I stay talking Italian
to one Russian tita
wit one blue smile.
I drink one beeg Slurpee.
Da siren no’moa.
I ski to da fewcha
wea ereteeng blue.
I jettin wit Willie K.
on top da ocean.
Garrens!
Wat dat mean cuz?
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