Bored with my toys, I bounce over to talk with you, but your commitment to communicate still broken. But you smile awhile. And grin through your gin and tonic. Less ironic, the timely liquor store delivery.
And on my dime we pour some more, and get around to pout about your ground round politics, and my meat and potato culture, which gives you the vapors, allowing my escape to episode with another broken plaything.
This one equipped with long legs and a short attention span, she glad hands compliments while wound collecting, cement mixing conceits. Having no truck with me, I again shift gears.