Back now to those godly personalities of ours, like these. Like, the Gods of the dance, for example. Awesome are those at Savoring the Rose, they're the gods of the dance I'd supposed, at least, for those whose circumstances cause them to hate and refuse to advance, Sis. Nor to worship before them and bow down before their trance sticks. Many were those who had fallen dead at their line-dancing feet. Just from the fear of them eating the meat, and the dread of the dangling beads falling off those biting teeth. Neath eh, but still, mek weh dweet. Yeah, come on man, let's do this.

Necked there on the breastplate beneath the cheek, was where they'd started this practice. Where memories of long-gone tribal ceremonies are often kept on keep, that's where they saw it, at first. But then again. Those Squares are everywhere, and as things always were with that man, right there. He never takes a break from breaking the faith of everyone. Like, people, both small and great. To take from them whatever he wants. No, wait, grab a plate, and let's dig into some more of this dining sinting, I mean, something.

"You mean, you don't mind?"

"No, not at all, no problem, man." Because, as everyone already knows, and in remembrance of the daily shows. Squares never learned how to dance. Like, not nearly as much as how he took to advance. Advancing his purpose and causes unto the stares of others like Lars is. There, I said it. Sit, sit. You mustn't eat your meat standing up on your feet. Now, let's go out on a beat, as we continue with these, man, this thing sure is sweet. But, like I was saying, they sure would like to, you know, like, learn how to do the dance troop. Lars can teach them a lesson, or two, or three. Now, take a lesson from you and me.

Squares were there. They'd floated in on rotten-tempered air. Same as it was said to have happened when it was with the waves of the sea. See? Now, look at me, and listen. Because, Lars, as you already know how they are, those Lars in particular. They were far from liking it when strangers were staying beside their backsides, without an invite. Or when they're circling round and about them among the other tribes, peeping inside. They live deep within the woods on the other side. The right side out from the place where, at first, came those restless-eyed, squared, and not-so gentlemen. That's it right there, my friend. But he'd beaten a path that was still clearly marked, would have heard of them before he saw what was coming off the hum.

Yeah. Humming, as it was to be heard coming down from them to fall on him, yes man. From the most feared Larry gentlemen. It was to come hopping into his hearing aid, along with the rest of them, as if to kill them, dead. Yes, man, all of them heard it, the roots rock reggae beating, as already said. Kingsley Squared and his trusted rum friends were to follow the rhythm of the beating drums, in. Before they knew what had whacked the hit on him, whack, he would have been down. Whack, yes, they were striking him down, whack. Now look, he's sprawled out on the ground, whack, whack. Out and cold he went down with a groaning moan like that.

Kingsley Square would have hugged the mound. Lars then laid him squared out on a hardwood bed, almost dead. That's how they carried him in, looking face up at Larry King. But, unlike how it was when they had to whack and wad him. Lars is known to be welcoming. He went out and welcomed him in. So, Larry King would have welcomed him in. That, right there and then, was the beginning of a diplomatic sin. That very evening, after they were over and done with the welcoming of the welcomed and were to be acquitted of the unexpected respite of wayward sons.

They washed him white and feathered the bedpan, then. Out in the middle, the Square King was led-leaded ledger. Got to see himself in some semblance of customary Larry ambiance to get them pleasured. The night was young and liberal fun, mixed in with mirth and prime-aged rum. Hands and feet, the squares were numb. Rubbing their hands together with complaints of never having it bled with rum. But Larried-wise, the facts are well-known, as to why (truth be told,) it would not go down past Square's deep throat to the Kingsley thrown down. To go walking the path as it was well known, hanging right there where he sat himself down.

But then comes the rummy drinks from the vessels round. Those cups of old had moved around, like, three, four, five, or more feet above the ground. From whence bright brains would have declared the throne. Then got thrown, content asunder to parts unknown. Sweat was pouring out, liberally, flowing out all over the squared Kingsley. Falling on boots below his suit atop the seat beneath his peas. Mix in a brew with squared red peas, like when they were seen peeping in the hot pea soup. While watching bubbles boiling over in the fiery smoke coming out of the chicken coop, where we did our chicken-keep, probably?

"Well, easy nuh man, why bother me?"

"Don't water the mud e. But go study the ants, then comes Miss Vomit, oh goddammit."

She'd poked a puke-up pannit, yeah man, upon it. Panicking at the truth, yes, that brute was just a youth. Yet, the night was far from becoming mute. There were many more floors left for him to shoot. Come yet more dancing off those Larried feet, to go and rest in the dust upon his seat. And then. And then. And then. Heh-heh. Look deh. Look, can you not see it? They could no longer stare at his dance. Each squared red face would have soaked his pants while falling flat from the firm of his stance. That dance did kill the ants, as well as the antics. All were, (soon afterward,) laid out dead there in his pantiatics.

Dust was seen rising on the tops. As Larried feet fell to the fall hard, heavy, and fast. With power balls and speed like a piston blast as if coming from the boiler room of Kingsley's steamship's ballast. "This is going to cost," he said, softly in my ear under his head. But hand me that mask. As of now, Lars has won. Squares, your loss. Oh no, don't do that, you can't stop now. I know, you want to stop but you shall not a blow-wow, because. You need to hear what shall be said next. Like a Muta of a shooter would say best before lighting you up with a burning barracuda, go west. Go on, go in and suit her if she does so. So, again I say, don't go to Chicago, to play.

Another excerpt from book 3, a story called "The Sword, the Word, and the Writing." Yeah man, no doubt, a Jamaica yaad mi cum fram. Sorry, I meant to say, I'm Jamaican-born and bred, okay? Yes, wordplay is the order of the day around here. Please join us again for more. Thank you.