My lids are sealing up to standards. Keeping all that I love, so damn fresh. Have caged those ignorant pets into well-formed chicken mesh. Every evening enjoy eating something-else's flesh. Re-heated. My wife, and her containers. Those lids work for no-brainers. My lip-hair will still grow after my death I need that ceremony's cleansing I need it so very bad That, and four heaping spoonfulls of bran with a quartered pear. Left-overs become normal feastings. I know where the beasties sleep I even have seen who they love the most during my trips coming, and going, from coast to coast. One more, just one more, Hawaiian pig roast. But, no more mountain-views For a few, anyways. Just some long flat picnics In Michigan, I'm still fresh in my sealed ways. Undressed by the best Feeling plain. Novacaine.