Amanda's Beard
I haven’t seen a beard that thick since the Cruise-Holmes wedding. It’s like 400 caterpillers got trapped inside the Large Hadron Collider. It’s like the residue left in the sink after Robin Williams fell into a vat of Nair. It’s like a Merkin left over from 1892 after Hurricane Ike tossed it through a bramble.
Oh lovely Amanda. I would compose sonnets entirely in Pig Latin them sing them to you with only a lute and mouth harp to accompany me during the twelve-tone bridge section. I would hire the Kronos Quartet to finish the Trio in B Minor, and then we would repose to the boudoir, where we’d sip Champale out of plastic cups, with only the light of a flickering Bugs Bunny Nightlight to keep us illuminated. I would then awkwardly fondle your knee while you sighed and checked your watch.
