life is wearing a red polka dot dress and high heels made of skyscrapers.
she's blowing on a trombone
like a dragon speaking words made of barbecue at the village's bravest knight.
the trombone is red hot, shaped like a ballerina and smoking.
she has feet like the fastest vincent blackshadows you ever saw
and eyes like migrating butterflies.
death has a crush on life.

death is holding a golf putter over his shoulder and taking a sip of warm orange juice,
staring straight at life with narrowed eyes and tapping foot.
death wants to dance, but does not.
he has hands like oak trees on fire.
his chest is watery like a seahorse dreaming about being a pelican.
death wants life like tattoos want skin.
the music she plays is a river full of swimming.
everyone is doing the jitterbug, going mad.

life is grinning like a mother fucker.