Pilot on a Cruise Ship

Before I lost my hair I was a pilot on a cruise ship. I spoke twelve languages, including Bonsai Dadda. I never, ever, slept. I got home from bars by climbing electricity pylons, taking off my belt, and flying-foxing my way down the wires. I did not have sexual relations with that women.

Before I lost my mind I was a pilot on a cruise ship. I had an underwhelming garage, fourteen Porsche’s long. My glass was never, ever, empty. I went to work in my own conventional manner: barefistedly knocking out Canadian brown bears and dexterously removing their skin. I was a youthful, vibrant, vegan.

Before I lost my girl I was a pilot on a cruise ship. Sometimes I was French, at other gigs Armenian. I was never, ever, Russian. I paid my bills by juggling little children, while gunning down apples at four hundred yards. I refute the claim of eccentricity.

Before I lost my life I was a pilot on a cruise ship. I sailed along on an aircraft carrier, and never, ever, left. I always hoped the light would change from red to amber, green. But it never did. And so I was left out there in the cockpit of the ocean, pondering what might have been.

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