I've Got Four Hours To Spare

Fainted pain

Prolific agents of flames, corresponding with the gents who sit on an island of créme. Microwave your frozen jam, and turn on your TV, electrify your brain, nod your head yes. Turtle strangled with paper straws, oggling the  Big Mac sitting on the floor right across the door where the exit sign is lit up red for blood.

Paris harmonize with violins, and the Middle East with power, debt is in doubt of solving the puzzle of economic cryptic shame. Take a bullet hole in your pocket and chain it to the house of parliament to decode it in vain. Your MP opens his mouth with acrobatic words on a Prada brain, it bounces off the walls with bills, but the exit sign remains, and it is lit up red for blood. Helicopters are flying over the hospitals, arousing suspicion that they are in denial, while the corridor of prison is on speed dial. Health scare are assassinations with flair, where do you park your car when you've locked your garage, my friend? I said, man, I don't have much time to even think about it, I just got four hours to spare.