|Poison poured in the ear of a sleeper may cause death, or may yet just bring bad dreams!|
The Mcfattigus is the thing that shall capture the conscience of the king. Nattie's mcfattigus, in the early morning, when I've been in the bed too long, and the mind has wandered down some spider hole where it has no business: Nattie's mcfattigus.
Those who have walked before.
Well yell it from the mountaintops. Mikey had a dream! My dreams are confused in my conscience, but in the underneath, these are exacting in their mathematics, precise, and constructed by the underworks to instruct the upperworks in the daily strife. But can I heed what I cannot remember? Those revelations are fleeting!
The mcfattigus, remembered.
The world is full of them, and many may come to a man, yet a man only need one for all his days. For a mcfattigus, there has yet been much suffering: the soft cleft with the little tuft of hair, or even hairless yet, bald(to use a gross term), where a man's head might rest and take comfort in the soft eventide.
In the small hours, when the world is quiet, the voice of the little mcfattigus may be heard, in its maniacal tyrade with the voice of a child, a small, delicate voice, but commanding and authoritative in its choice of wording. Dictating as it were, wreaking havoc, having its want and wanting everything and anything however impossible, under the sun.
|a lot of turmoil, over one confused mcfattigus, like an errant sensor in an armed missile.|