Crystaline was fancy and fluffy and fly.
If she hadn't been a chicken, she'd have been the kind of girl who could pull off a Kanga and Hammer pants.
If she'd had ears, she'd have been the kind of girl who would strut down the street in 2017 wearing her uncle's old Walkman and people she passed woulda assumed it was the iPhone11.
Had god given her arms, they'd be bangled and jangling as her hips swayed left and right to her inner keytar rhythm.
If she'd had ears, she'd have been the kind of girl who would strut down the street in 2017 wearing her uncle's old Walkman and people she passed woulda assumed it was the iPhone11.
Had god given her arms, they'd be bangled and jangling as her hips swayed left and right to her inner keytar rhythm.
Daphne was bookish and softish and shy.
She'd shoulda been born in the liberry stacks.
You could tell in her eyes, she'd have sneaked down to the poetry section on her breaks and crawled into the 811s to hide.
If she'd had shoulders, they'd be inked in Rilke and Dickinson quotes.
If she coulda held a pencil, the walls would've been covered with words upon words.
But alas...
They were just chickens.
Pecking at the ground, dodging the rooster Caesar, bokking and squawking, and being startled constantly by that lady's new Bichon Frise.