King Charles has a compressed air power scooter with several knobs and switches he plays with during long brunches at the Imperative. King Charles will go blind if he keeps it up say the brunchees as they wait for their raspberry mouse. The King is playing with the windowsill of his compressed air hoola hoop, taking ten in the little pip  where weeeee say the little epistles scattered across the ages, their margins stained with sweet sweet sweet tea. Where air compressers extend their tubules in an elastic race to the sky, the king twists his legs into a surfeit. Good King Charles in his always compressed air banana machine and his bean sprout saddle and his horse whiiiiiiish that nightly lops one leg off this good grasshopper writing plays in the dark, editing these very plays in the still-dark, making a crown of hundreds of microscopic air compressors for the good, stolid king who is pleasantly angled like a hat on the hairy couch.

 

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