Tales of Carrie or the “Gothic” cause. . .

Welcome to the story of ‘Mianomie’ or the place of an iconoclast moralist view! While it’s not uncommon for millions of planets to have the understanding of a more subconscious level of how this place was created as a more fitting home for those who’ve chosen to repose their force of ambitious waves that permeate through the truth that’re forever fevered by a more impoverished cause that’s in turn more innovative towards an iconoclast being or thoughtful reasoning that’s contained in an idealist behavior of servient views that bustle with the chickens that have had their heads cut off. . .

I’ve got wicked
I’ve got witches
I’ve got wicked, wicked, wicked, wicked witches! I’ve got ice cream. I’ve got potatoes. I’ve got wicked, wicked, witches with ice cream and potatoes. I’ve got my gal. She keeps saying that she loves me. She’s got wicked, wicked witches with ice cream and potatoes. . .

Capitalism is the metaphor of impoverished cause that only allows for the learning of unskilled training? Or a town with lots of iconoclast waves of an idealist behavior that only incurs more skilled learning which furthers the cause of an unskilled training or perhaps the ambitions of an unskilled reigning of cognitivity . .

Wicked, wicked, wicked witches with ice cream and potatoes. . . Um, bah-bah! Um, bah-bah!

The sounds of an ancient wheel-chart shuddered softly against the mountain slopes as the harnessed beats of hovened oxen deftly swept the roadside with loosened cobblestones that tumbled wildly as they plummeted down into the valley far below. . .

I’ve got witches
I’ve got wicked witches
I’ve got wicked witches with peaches ice-cream and potatoes. I’ve got my gal saying she loves me. She’s got wicked, wicked witches that’s so lazy eating ice cream and potatoes in the basement. Wicked witches with pumpkin ice cream and tomatoes. Um, bah-bah!

Which’s the capitalism of brutal force that only occurs in the bustling worst of crushed metaphors of a servient farce that’s flavored with its own calling of the servients purist rings a levitating spring of what’s yours is mine and eenie-meenie-minie thees with its big round ups and its big round does and its big fat chickens with their big fat toes. While it’s all in a place that never sleeps! An ominous only that’s not to be any kind of yummy or “yus and mees” with its eenie-minie mine and thees that we could see “the metaphors of an old drum that never tells of the serpiente cause of a hallowed sound” with it’s shuttering cause of a permanent song or the new sum of a prevalent behavior not yet known? Is there such a place that might not yet be “quite so unusually seen” that can’t spell chickens or don’t spell ‘ducks’ in the behaviors of a masonic whit or the psychiatry among the many doctrines of m-e-e-e-e-e-e in narcissism degrees or just big bleeps that go ‘blip’ so ignored by the chimps with the rhinestone clips in big fat grins that “like you my love” only the future knows what’s how or when . .