Tales of Perl Monks….
Far, far from earth. Somewhere in the milky-way galaxy. There is a planet, from the perl monks. That their ways have created, crafted, and simulated.
It only exists now as neural simulation from the games we have now. You can feel it when you dream at night. You can hear it in the snow falling in the dead of winter.
Seems their three primary virtues were to be lazy, impatient, and a great deal of hubris. I’ve smoked enough Camel cigarettes to better understand why.
Now with enough coffee under my belt, I can tune a bit, in pixelated ink, to sort non-sense written by Apache, some mad mans source code for how to skunk a Rat.
Now this tale of some socks. They wash with the tide, it’s a ride; the fair hair, oblivious side. We used their processors to render our graphics, like the hippopotamus find quantum mechanics riding on comet trails through time, just to get a kick.
More gin, set the sails to bulk. We have no hulk, but the secrets out on who Thanos is. We need corn husk to musk. The fat cats, wipe their tear filled eyes and repent in whole. If they only had a soul, maybe they could be taught a lesson?
Captan Rum, Where’s the fun? I ain’t got no gun. Get me a wife with some petals. Just don’t run the metals. Balls, Some dogs delight. The perl monks can sort your sorry ass back to bits of ether, and still ride the milky-way in Spaceships built for crew and passengers.
I was a lazy writer, but try writing with the war I had in my head. Speaking of which, I hear the borg are out of oil? Is that true?
Bring back Captan Walker, His son, and The number of men missing. If we don’t see them again, like real soon; you will wish there was space on my ship; like get hip.
You want the oil? We want Captan Walker back safe and sound. Some new sky to call home, and half the galaxy with spice. Wouldn’t it be nice? Same as mice, let’s all be Misfits. Some fun to be had, with green in our pockets, and a way home.