Dangle.

Dangle

Forty squares of roses i don’t know what’s the sign Lancashire or Yorkshire there’s patterns on the stairs, twirling flowers interlocking keys, people walking down the river, this flower on the left a cross combined with diamonds a rotaries spoke, spinning Blackpool wheel, the glass, above such lofty height, above two plugs with switch the wall is slippery and smooth, crimson, ruddy like the middle of a well cooked duck, tongue red, deep lanterns and flowers curling to the right like an ellaboreta Halloween ride.

Up goes tea on a tray the steps squeak and creak I can see a light shining in the room above there’s people eating food up there. There’s more patterns on the wall, outside it rains, in the middle on the stairs, these four lamps that light the place look like pear drops scented in the French perfumed clouds of Niagara Falls.
I really like the carpet, the ceilings well bear. There’s a handle there, there’s a handle here, pull the bronze claw like a trees branch grip it twice in between finger and thumb, talk to the lion, Papa Briggles, hello you, having a dangle, oh it’s good to put your feet up and hang on a lamp, don’t go melting your plastic head.