I'm feeling all creative, so I thought I'd kick off this latest batch of Frosty's photos with a poem. Try not to explode with like, awesome overload and stuff. Maybe sit down.
Frosty's got no shower
'cause the plumber's fixing leaks
So he hasn't washed his armpits now
For six or seven weeks.
Despite his unbecoming funk
And film of dark'ning grime,
He's still recording imagery
From ties to textures pebbly
On to statues, glass and tin;
There's barely squares of picture
That he's not an expert in.
The last one's of a shower
Wishful thinking, one might say
Because our Frosty's smelling quite a bit
Like corpses mixed with hay.
If any of you plan on getting that poem tattooed on yourself, I'd really appreciate credit. And I think you should get it on your arse.