Fuck and what and what fuck what?

Concepts form slowly in a song and dance mode of operation. Pretending to function as they were made, parallels answer the side by side equation. Lost is the answer format strung on theory of displacement. From the air drops funny harlequins dancing the intended posture song, crying above the great beyond and far. Away lies lords of leaping bounds burning with mad desire clowns. Serpent, serpent, can it be, can someone want to crucify me? And station is weird because two dudes are one. What the fuck dudes?!?!?! Rufus found the grave and so did the Winter of discontent. No matter, Canadian bacon burned the sleeve for shelter expansion, enhancing the core of the beware.