List of the Lost - Morrissey

candidature for roly-poly vicious porkiness makes their
plungingly plump parents laugh loudly, as little junior blubberguts
orders yet another Superburger with tub-of-guts
determination to stuff death into round bellies, and such kids
come to resemble their parents as ten pounds of shit in a fivepound
bag.
Knees pumped a canine scamper as yet another Tuesday had
Ezra hotfoot ahead, passing on that in-the-saddle baton to
Nails, who pedaled with both feet to an outstretched Harri.
“Sko!” called Justy, “Sko! Sko! Sko!” his economic version of
“Let’s go!”, and the stumps stirred further and further.
Commentary in college newsletters repeatedly warned of this
very locomotion machine whose bolt had been logged and
filmed and photographed for every enviable stubby pumpkin
in every corpulent Pepsi-cola tank town from South Succotash
to the boondock boonies beyond so that they might rightfully
shrink with unmerry-go-round doubt at the mighty
Priorswood. Soon shall be the finish of that final competing
moment when landsmen and compadre were no more; their
killer instincts killed, their do-or-die done. Mumblings of a
new dark-horse shadow ghost from Philadelphia raised a tribal
alarm squawk here and there, but rarely here and infrequently
there since there wasn’t sufficient soul to statistically pitch
battle against the tight mob-ring of campesino Priorswood.
The anger of straggling teams pitched their bitchery and cried
into their rolled towels, but only Ezra’s famiglia had the
unfortunate tiger by the unfortunate tail, and any hurt vanity
would not be Ezra’s. Scoreboard summaries listed student stats
fairly – and with stethoscope intimacy as medical charts were
watched with nitpicker’s fussiness lest whispers of ’roid rage
(the excitable mania produced by pancake layers of steroids)
sleazed up the reputation of any team peppy enough to sniff
victory in advance.
Away from the track Ezra and Eliza were, by now,
compatible enough to ignore the very worst of each other’s
habits. Their names were now so tightly super-glued that
toastmasters began to joke with some seriousness about
marital union (“please make the same mistake that we did, so
that we shan’t feel so patsy-pigeoned” ) – so frothy and pawed