F.U.J.I.M.O.

I get it.

I used your '57 Chevy without permission. Truth be told, I like to think of my balls of steel as rolling thunder--ball-lightning--on that bat out of Hell that was my pteropine stallion. And yes, it was the last car to pass him by, ungulate and horned, the devil's last chance: but no fingers--ten thumbs made him irresistible and I had to pick him up.

And yes, we crashed the pillars of Heaven, as a blur of fire and ice through the uprights of the uprighteous. Rolling thunder, ball-lightning, All while you slept so securely sweetly.

The affectations only punctuated my guiltless irresponsibility--the faded blue jeans, torn leather jacket, tattoo stating what I was born to do, and not a dry eye in the house; no dried-up tears for what might have been. That kind of might ain't right, but now my kind of might was right.

Yes, I confess--proudly, defiantly, and righteously.

Whatever you shout at me, push your objections hard to overcome your red-shifting, 'cause you're falling behind. I'm internally combusting and I'm blue-shifting. Possession is my qualification, and I have it all. You want retribution? Then come and get me! At the very least, argue your point, 'cause we're movin' on! FUJIMO!