The Mandalay babes were tucked in the dark luxurious room, beauty rest is at it's most powerful on Saturday mornings. After a night of being somewhere else, after a night of long talks about things only sisters and mothers should talk about. Combined, they know it all, everything there is to know.
The controlled emotions of competition, finding the weak spots, climbing out of holes, gasping for calm, a faint vulgarity. Caught up and hung around like a straggler, went deuce juice to get back in it. Made my mark with the service shot, snapped and curving. To have victory, to compete successfully, even barely. It is the shit.
Float the blue, let it carry you away. Sad eyed woman turned happy eyed, regal posture, dignified and accomplished. Portugal will need to score early. The Uraguans will panic. The cost of losing is practically a death of sorts. Failure hasn't been considered, they have been told of their own greatness. To lose is to be surprised, devastated. Portugal must score early.
At the end of the road, looping tunes of real scenarios. Lonely horn solos. Tossed away to the Goodwill, heart a mess, wondering what happened to the dinosaurs. Just blood and bones, the late night show in Oak Cliff. Might be the last we see of him, but probably not. Lake Michigan is too cold in the winter. More to dig around here. Good thing the law will be around.