So the uplifting time of year is nigh, near to the touch for trimming and digging. Burrow and tunnel your thoughts for what we will do when. The weather gets warm?
So who will posit positive ruminations of temperatures in climes of summer. Will you BE the hex? Will you be the vanguard? What warrant do you wave for wistful thinking? I like it 20 in the metric scale of things. Not that riding will be forthcoming until the Good Surgeon Schwike clears me for ambulation. Hopefully the 4th, Be With You.
As the best of us we regale on the eve of the Cinco De Mayo, pronounced, [ˈsiŋko ðe ˈmaʝo] I will be in sincere jollification. Do you have your deco’s up? Do you have a nice Matador arranged for a small slaying of El Toro on the festive day?
Slaggards who have not appropriately prepared. And I am not talking a few Tacos from the shelf filled and flogged. We must, by edict ,direct the detection of derelict delinquents to become forthwith less enebriated than those not forthcoming.
You sloth commas are as lethargic as detritus emanating from the hind of a bovine.
Make it good. Dine as you need. Need as you wine. Let’s kick this up a little. We Mex our Tex, Paco our Taco and strut the Avenue like a Rockefeller.
Wake and roll this festive day. What for a dead person 2000 years old we take the whole week off, practically the whole month? So lets out aside the conifer and pull out the Cacti. Cinco De Mayo goes hi oh.
Slip it smooth Santamaria. I have it hot.
Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai.