The tales tumble forth.
Like pulp fictioneers
We can't help produce but
Prolifically
In our verbosity.
We rush and race
In rambunctious rhythm -
Bouncing back and forth
Springboarding conversation.
No pause for breath,
No pause for regret,
Just torrents of truths
With tiny embellishments (for flair)
Fueled by sonorous sibilants
And whiskey.
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