if the bread belongs in the parlour, it goes to mouldy in spite of the pleading armchair which like the butter lies whining until the door mat sticks it in the mailbox cheerfully and the screen queen complains about the sassy broken shutters but the door says, come hither, you are younger and concrete wants to keep cracking but the penis is the real winner here for we will all die for the sake of it's dinner and in the end it's clear that sometimes we should all shut up and listen to the greasy spoon a'coming around the bend.