I throw vacuum flasks at sand.
I throw Star Wars box sets at hermits.
Last year, I threw six laptops at the Pyramids.
When I throw a red-hot treefrog at your wife,
your wife throws origami Buddhas in the Danube.
I then throw your wife at an escaped Nazi trapeze-artist.
Your wife then throws me at the nearest brown dwarf star.
The nearest brown dwarf star is called Luhman 16A.
It has a moody atmosphere of electrons and X-rays.
The locals teach me how to elongate my eyes
in vast erotic symphonies of emerald and grape juice tones.
Grape juice is used in China to cure the Napoleon complex.
I once threw Napoleon a fantastic left hook.
Napoleon took the hook, attached it to a helium balloon,
and paraded it through Paris on a float made entirely
of the sex toys of former aristocrats, eventually installing
the whole thing in the church of San Giorgio Maggiore in Venice,
where it was used to harbour formalist poets during World War II.
He then threw me in jail, and threw the key, your wife,
and my piano teacher's collection of Bin Laden memorabilia
at a Fabergé egg once owned by Karl Marx.
I don't mind telling you, that threw me a little.
