And he's so happy. So just calm down, relax, take a breath, take a mint, take a break, take some time, take some air, steal a car. That's the plan, Stan! Stan doesn't like horses, he doesn't like Chove.
I am Chove. I love Stan. Stan doesn't love me.
I'm riding the Japan-go-'round when Britton takes me to the fair, that's my favorite horse ride. Children always try to touch me and eat my Ched. Ched is nice.
Kind.
This could be a poem but it's not. So don't make it one. Only when it's to begin with. I begin with the number C, because my word is Chove. This is the way that I let it out, let it out, hey hey hey, give me up.
There's too many lumps in my hay. I should stop emptying my dung sack into it. I forget you're not suppose to eat your feces. I forget that my waste is not chocolate.
Addicted is what I am to Britton.
This is what I am to the world.
This is how the world loves my Chove.
This is how I spell "thumb."
"I got you there by the legs and the strings attached to your back!" I shouted to Pinnochio. He didn't listen or react because he's not a real man. He's just a boy. Now that I'm a manly Chove I can do all sorts of things like ride a bike or play the trumpet. There's no other horse, or Chove, that can do these kind of things. I should've been named Escape Artist or Flabby. I represent the wide load taking up my wife's parking space. Just kidding horses don't have wives.
Mother horse hasn't talked to me in a few days. I haven't seen her since she was in Britton's cave. I wonder what he's done to her. What has Britton done to mother horse? Maybe he's birthing.
Birthday surprises aren't fun. Don't birth anymore birth babes out of mother horse. She's too stretched already. This isn't the game anymore Britton. No fun. No fun.
I am the son.
I am Chove, I have marble eyes.
Dung gung sack.
