Incense, incensed; drip four letters laterally.  Sip sauce of sunk ships, blinked past lost tips.  A mind is a terrible thing to waste, waiting watchfully for future ending Saturdays.  The weekend calls the start of still, time flipped on each flop, slip.  Tin cans half full of half-empty lids, rusted out bottoms resurrect the clean game, provenance.  Some days the words meaning minds; others, they form pink clouds of unsung sorrow.  Picture pitchers of piss-glazed pints, peering into placid points of star-bound dreams.  We sit shaky some days, tuning; in the next day and out the five former.