Little Indian Girl, Where is Your Father?

Still later in the game, fifth quarter or sudden death nulltime, and every Central American prophecy grabbing at your gusto and trimming your vitals like the premature pruning of the wisened proto-vine. God, cog, dog, odd, evil, even, heaven, take out the o’s and e’s and the a and I and the constant consonant drone enlightens the truest weighty nature of our neck albatross alphabet. Gutteral clucks and Oswegean popping sounds and the Ket language of Central Siberia and yet not a single scrap of porridge for a dying dog if supper is held in highest regard.