Read at your own risk. (Piano Shade)

The piano hurt them. In all the places that didn't seem to matter.
At least not as often.
Crushing purk-o-sets. Setting them out of the junkies reach.
Lauging as he clamors to the high hamburger shelf.
Brenda? Blinda? Whatever her name happens to be. She knows that hamburgers should be high.
Up. Far up. No not in any transient-dental type-o fasion.
Just up. Out of reach.
Crying dishwasher maidens beating their sorrow in red palms.
Worn like the Friers hand of the Fratery.
They toil with no glimpsing of the future.
Their progenys are the future that they can bare to watch.
Their get begets more getting. All this getting with nothing substancial in the end.
Just the spectre. The shadow of the piano that has yet landed.
Mud and blood and kingdoms.
Elemental mewlings. Simpering futility. The Alpha's favorite tune can't be heard until the piano comes to a full stop.
Until the last of his work is dashed into spavined trash.
A trillion days in the Heavens of Grimacing Furies.
A triple edged sword that delights and inspires.
The banality of the wicked lapped up by the grey lamented upon by the good.
All the while the fool and the high hamberger dosen't see any of it.
Not with what is dancing. Pranceing. Mingling and singling out the fancies of all the princes of the earth.
The joys and enslavements. Everyone's piano is falling at the same velocity.
"IT"S NOT A GOD DAMNED RACE!" The greedy shout. The miser screams.

Watch out for them there type-O's