I’m a Handbasket Case

I’m a handbasket case headed for the only via place I know. It’s going to be hellish, but it’s the only way through.

I’m fried like a pickle. I’m toasted like bread. I’m smoked like a salmon. I’m burnt like an orange. I’m running on the fumes of fumes and frankly I’m exhausted. I’m brushing the hair of the dog and turning out bald and balderdash. I’m licking the barrel clean of fish.

I’m falling to pieces and I love it to bits.


What do you think? Right? Wrong? Pure poppycock?