The Song of Hauser

How graceful are your adapters in your gadget box, O well equipped maiden! Your rounded banana plugs are like jewels, the work of a Universal Hand.

Your earphone pads are rounded bowls that ever lack mixed whines. Your belly is a Passport platform, encircled with Pringles crumbs.

Your two speakers are like two mounds, twins of a Mars bar.

Your tower is like an ivory neck. Your tuning eyes are tools in Cumbre by the gate of Barbara in the Land of Osterman. Your nodes are like solders of lead and tin overlooking damn ass kiss.

Your headphones crown you like melted carmel, and your lead-ins are like purple chiltlins; a listlogger is held captive in the tresses.

How farad and PL259 you are, O behausered one, sync detectable maiden!

You are staticy as a palm reader, and your hooters are like the owls therein.

I say you will climb the palm reader and lay hold of its beams. Oh, may your melons be like clusters of the vine, and the scent of your breath like apples,

and your kisses like the best wine cooler that goes down smoothly, gliding over the lips and teeth and drippeth onto the Passport in thine lap.

I am my behauseredís, and his desire is for me.

Come, my behausered, let us go for into the Dxpedition, and lodge in the Family Cabins;

let us go out early, to catcheth the Asians, and see whether the vines have budded pirates, whither the PNGs have opened and the Indos are in bloom. There I will give you my listlogs.

The mandrakes give forth fragrance, and over our doors are all choice lead-ins, new as well as old, which I have laid up for you, O my behausered one.