The Neck Blizzard
He arrives with thunder on the collar and leaves only hairspray in the wind.
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He arrives with thunder on the collar and leaves only hairspray in the wind.
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A burnout prophet with sacred curls escaping under a mesh-back crown.
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He whispers sweet nothings beside the snack machine and means every syllable.
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A pretzel-scented legend pacing the tile like it owes him money.
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From deep-fried smoke he rises, prize ribbon tangled in his mane.
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He rolls with destiny and smells faintly like rented greatness.
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