We gather adorned in soaking wet bedclothes, which spent the night sponging the drips which leave us so frothy.

Waste not, accrue yawn juices in milk jugs, and rejoice in unison as they fill.

The story must be told.

The story must be told.

All my nephews look the same, and it's because an accursed uncle among my kin is a lusty

son bitch, spreading his seed and his siblings' wives like mustard.

Oh yes, he gets around family reunions, so more nephews join the next year and the next, till we drown in a nephew see.

Reflect on these words justly as we absorb this greasy psalm.

I watched the news.

There was an investigative piece about a restaurant that made its own milk.

All the townspeople adored the milk, the spicy appetizers, and the bullshit nailed to the walls,

but no milk can keep a secret.

In the night, outside the darkened restaurant, there were moans.

The neighborhood children suspected a ghost and made dares.

It was then, brave Tots entered the restaurant and found the whole staff clad in hoods, bent over,

sigils carved into buttocks.

And boy, howdy, it stank up a stench.

Before the slack-jawed children that chanting masses made a circle.

And in the center, a dead dog being feasted upon by a flapping horde of pregnant bats.

The circle spun, and one staff member at a time masked faces suckled at them,

milky flying mamas sup in little hops, as though fish catching insects.

The tots were spellbound, and the gentle staff spat their mouthfuls into a communal bowl.

...