I want to talk to someone
In the house of cards
But, never ******* fall so we rummy, dealt under

It's a bit of laughter, that goes a long way to just you
If it comes as no surprise, it goes a long way if we, you're you
Looking for canvases of fruits, and tapedecks of Japan, dying pretty hard
My life's in misery, but, I don't what, does it fear to live?
My life's in inescapable fear, and I don't know what it means
Oh doctor, tell me why will my thy will open to the eye of sun and heaven and earth, red earth I'm bleeding out in these rags forlorn for the lost feeling
Hold my high hopes, in the kite running skies that leave my thoughts dry as long as the picture is finding innocence in your reasons, two simple reasons why this in spells of manic depression
Trapped in a young man, and old and dead that spurs madness
Doesn't the piano chime with the murderous hope in my skullduggerous soul, I don't deserve this madness
Dreaming up of skulls, suddenly realizing the death of thine light in my eyes very dubious, beyond false compare
He said I'd just write you free-prose poetry, but, I'm looking for another letter of the Hades Gate, who heard him leave
I'm blowing in the wind, but, I'm drowning in madhouses
Raging with innocence, innocuous and capricious caveats, and talk of the passion without immediate conscious experience
I'm a body without consciousness, and I hear you in the starry skies of your loveless dust ordered in the years of rag ***** and talk of artichokes artistic, chokes me to tears to see what we've become
In a generation of hysterical madness, and I saw the best minds in the yearly bestsellers written by droning bickering pretentiousness, looking for childhood, they found their flickering peace in their cooked up courage in the collated document of liverwurst and hog tails that promised the empty soul to offer its confusion in a soup of surly murmurs in this silent sky, what ideal do I love to choose, adding two and two?
I'm forgetting everyone when I realize I should have forgotten them a long time ago, in the centuries that repeated in the song
Dancing with repetition, in the mayday of restoring heaven
How about I tell you that I couldn't talk to my doctor?
'Cause **** was the disease
How about I tell you, that my house smells, wishing it could make love to stylish artists and teddy bears with adorable aromas, fragrances of time and my mother can't read me, I just read her I write about the battered suitcases wanna travel the swirling minds of childish about desultory blues on the Ray Charles blues in
Playing in the back of a phonograph, in the corsets and flowery eyes that spell danger if I pluck a star from their supernatural darkness in hand-churned ice cream sitting on a desolate understanding of the homes of the lost souls, and I talk of the ceramic ashcans that process the changed minds
That had understood the changes, in the wind wondering what hit them or in videos of gapes of bad mouth in stammering broken lips
Drama is the art of success, and thunderous claps and the noise wants me to cut my life into half measures, and half hollow men
Some of them now kids, we are the studied men with the ignorant looks searching for the light
Understanding that a child can accept the light, the real tragedy strikes when we realize that an adult is scared of us
Sovereign in slavery, talk of the broken lip in white pallor that cries tears of emotional tears of cottages that sail in Morocco in Tangiers
On the ***** streets of hunts, and jousting verbal catatonic piano brilliant hurt, balancing on the fire
That I can't see, and the fall feels cold as hell, and the terrapin stays in the recesses of the doves flying above them
Falling into the side of the dark moon, and the colored literature in the stammering men was a white, well that's how we had the grapevine in this haven
Lend it's heralding living, in the clothes exchanged for jazz, and talking about jazz like it is, for the black men forgiveness
White men are afraid of black men because of expression. And black men are afraid of white men because of the lack of oppression, or the means to tell it like it is with their white lies and white fears of the black man sitting on a bench with his hand in ice creams, it's freezing outside...

White men fear black men because of depression, dedicated to cause and effect
Ghostless towns of the crossbones soulless towns, and following the logic that makes common sense, to avoid the ghosts of their past in the ideas that need to be kept in the past
Maybe true love waits, but, it's not my barking neighborhood
And I hate women with attitudes, and dogs that don't latch the reciprocated greed in a bit of chalk and white flame, green platitude, because happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing
Where's her mom?
She's crying?
Where's her mother in the neighborhood suburbia?
Cashing in, and cashing out without her looks of financial fickle frenzy going into the cries of the howling crummy apartment, doesn't tell when the broken tears stop before they are complete
******* single torn child, an ultimatum for no limitations if your whiplashes the dashed chair, in the undulating tumescence of buildings in howling midnight in the secret garden
Sunflower you look toward the time, identikit caress these battered feelings in that we all know that ought to be found in the hearts that have lost them glow
We are lost in your glow monarchical, we are writing writhing souls looking for offensive erosion
And defensive simplicity in oil and water
In oil lamps burning midnight lamps inscribed in speakeasies, crowded in a quickie
Affixed I'm free to taste the reality of the hydrogen bomb, the best defense is the strongest offense

Our dreams alive, in three songs
You looking to get ******, in the arms of what's going on
Touch about the reality, of the great good of the hearts of the nosegay I took a nosedive, or the opened up fire of the circle's curlicue
Hells burning and sings, and burns the throat of supernatural sordid affairs of the singed dresses, lips quiver and nape the murmurs, closer to your party girl
Listening to the parallelogram lights of nadirs on the cream drop, on the trap, ******* stint rest are we
Sleeping with the nocturne-blonde, wheelchair on the cannibal dynamo of the change looking in product elitism, sold out before they knew they were buying war
You're a bit inside, further into my ferried heart on the wheels of fire of the crossroads of the good,
The hoods out, the special affair sounds like a girl, the number of the pocket
Of the ashcans on Wednesday, so smart about your Hakagaw bows, open doors to my cellar in speakeasies and tensions
On the phone calls, in the terse rhyme sin, the sails determination of confessing our love, in the strong live in the heart of years that do not have any limitation and have no learned lessons,
See tomorrow's is the night that's alive, it's the midsummer's daydream and the midnight cauterized midriff
How do we sell it, and the trench warfare in the solidarity of the streams of dresses in steaming stowaway, maybe we good we have mister magic selling the war in a handful of stardust
Shadow rises in that pass as years go by
Shadow is a pejorative term for copies of running on hurt looks in open books of minds, we have our own wars in piled plasticine in methanol, hydrogen prologue of the helium
Time throws us into the year in the complete word that completes me, and I'm a bit nicer
I'm so lost, I'm a bit nicer
Deep sarcasm in the classroom
The winners have become bad, and no one cares about the losers
What does it mean? I'm not telling you my stories

Talk in my sleep
Pictures on my window
Laying out on my diary, Hoben pon dai ni

Having no imitation is no limitations, having no limitation as limitation
Where I'm sappy, saplings are in the process of creating and are applying themselves
A future in the natural sun moon and stars, blind and gay meteorite in the emotional content
Do not go gently into the good night, the blindness of the substance
Fresh out of luck, we are looking for a new order

Ran door after door, indoor substances, and randy nature
Looking for the freshness in the terms of endearment, searching
For something, in this life that knows no limits
If I were a writer, an analyst of humongous proportions
**** sun, and washed up lone stars in the cloudless climes
What's does it mean? It's just music to my ears

Midnight, she walks in beauty of starry skies
And we talk passions, in the cove in the water by the bench, the ceiling talks to us, in themes and motivating motif, Berkeley bars with French-Canadian on their walls, on the road with John Locke talk about liberalism in market economies

Capitalist summer, capitalist winter, we are still working for the sisters next to our daughters, asking if we change it like is or make out the answers out to falling bombs, leave in silence or do not talk about Hakagawa bows
The thin shade of watered bushes in the iridescent stars of being and she said we should go to the Phoenician Lands look for dull weather, I'm too old for this greedy flame
Boy sobs! In the starry dynamo! In the stairways, last cries on the road radio speaking of Adonis

In the gold rush, we already messed up the economy looking for Denver soul the Charles River, in talk of dreaming up Arkansas, lost in Boston's breathless winter, Adonis!

The ideas keep coming out, and it's not your fault that you cannot create market capitalism with a proper free market, talk of the death of classical economics in talk of neon streetlights of ***** streets looking for an angry fix
Can you kiss me! Or do I shut up? It's clean, it's a job that I need to specify and falls into the spectral silence
Oh silent ones, in the Denver state of gardens and secret savage Adonis lurking germinating death, and dying by the sword colder than inner Denver
Shoot me you coward, I know you are here to **** me! John!
Please ******, meditate on me in this burnt Norton, talk of zeal and kosher door knocks, dreaming up the President's men, and the baptist Jesus, stake your claim, Eli sabachtani Eli Eli on my starry soul, oh God of the intelligent editors, I had chosen to have a brilliant luncheon of truncheon things, Sativa and indica learned to be thy words

Let's see your Oedipus complex, or Electra in your sclera etherized patiently waiting
Patience is a virtue, and vice and virtue have no edifices in the happiness, ticking dead clocks of Ernest Hemingway
Open mind, first open soul to the possibility we will never understand that years go by, and eternity grows like the love in the sunflower sutra of his karma cosmic debris in asteroid blue dreaming up the affable epiphanies of tortured broken souls
Broken places with the traces of the damage, starry skies

Sending the love forward
Paying it back, in the
The way the socialism asked for a corporal
She loved him with a love untoward, that came from America
You can either hurt yourself or burn yourself, find fault with it
But, you will always learn from it, in the bebop that doesn't stop the motion of food and clothes in songs about buildings
Boy's with sobbing looks held by kiosks sending the semaphoring forward, with hope in we weren't going pop our madness during our cherry red wine sedation, holding up ******* and
A flag

I'm howling under the little tree
Becoming quiet, becoming a pole
Lank, hankering on the ransacked goals stealing the sleep from, meaningful free prose with the simple words that stole my sleep, I want your hand
Don't you wanna dance in the dark
Butchering Sundance, in the kid of the friable apartment
Apartment 145-146, today's last cries on the radio on Central park songs
That's alright to turn the radio and explain the positively rhapsodic living sphinx riddle, be killed by it or understand it
Across midnight skies, and shirk the sins, and scream with the pursuit of desires in Tangiermen
Burning with Illmatic fire on the sunflower beads with sultry kisses on the nape of your neck
For happiness, I live in a time where we are quixotic
Blind with angel hippie looking for Alhambra, to ruin their with happiness, with mindful language burning in the circles of hell reigning with boundaries of paradoxical paradise lost
Some of us are a locked stocked barrel gun in machine tombs Barros creating sorrows, likeness to a warm run on Spain
An open book within without a son is like a train journey, it stays like a good friend in the Blake Light of burning Solaris
We were on the run on, Goldman Train running the errands like a kid waiting for the gold rush on the cast across acrobat, back and forth should I sat or should I go like the ultimate punk
Counting the stars just like you, easing ego in the poetry losing myself in strains of woes in a parceled nosegay which time clutched from Empyrean isles
Ginsberg meeting Walt Whitman in the supermarket sharing the list of cultured vegetables in Elysian isles, California in the catcher of eye fields
It's all coming together.

The poets for the howling poets
Poems for everybody
Making his natural act

Happy roses on the parade, he was waiting for the 2 years to arrive
The album cover love the lover's wilting love in on Jesus' daughter in a tree, lovely sails it had
They fell when the autumn had arrived, **** your darling buds
Pygmies digging holes in the soil in their hearts of toil, falling prudently
Like leaves, the red justice, gold *****, in a curlicue of extra circulars

Touch on the washed-up Gurudeva, fixing holes in the faucets, the sunshine shines on our bad news, save us the supernatural darkness
The superstition of the Siamese cat, and the weeping lady
The flow is getting better, make love could we ever escape dark days and escape the midnight shines like good fillers on hydrogen delight, stars in the stare looking for the assets to darkness
Moonchild roses remembering the supermarket in America, that changed them, those who were pleased with the peaches incarnate in the cries of the last radio of the gold heads, buses of the sunflower tin cans
That cried an Eli book of poems, show me in the radiant illuminating blue eyes

I am walrus, I can make these songs okay touch tough but it was right to be alright
Ending a letter to Lennon on the twelfth night, the wrong from my lenience
My liege, my childhood here hath Earth omnipotent in areolar sprayed aerosol cans, we long these round holes and surmise of free prose in the inner moon
Light up the sadness

Album cover acrid as the midnight spoon, feeling sentimental
Tumescent buildings, my cheer, without imagination
You don't deserve possessions, you shot down dead weight
Carry the shine, in the confines of a painless razor of lacrosse, Billy shears brushing your head
I'm shaving my head, with the crowd in an instantaneous hung jury in the situation in the dalliance with the forgotten underwear, ******* my collegiate thumb
I want to write my own stuff with natural ecstasy and alliance of the hung jury in the psychotherapy, and the ******* ministerial preacher, saying please please me

You said you were
Struggling with the bugs, Pam
In your head, and hung bedbugs in your childish core, of faith as a person who loves the sibilant sounds
When I laugh as my head comes out of the plastic nation
Freed and staring into the distance, Ono here in the ballad hearin' sound laughter

Lead your path
To thine light ad thine veritas
There is thy will in every bright thought in
We thought up a bed, filled hat across the new man

We are not scared among the ranged beats, were dreaming style
Derailed from the tabula rasa, and waterfalls and lose our happiness in the morning
And search for the under in our childish souls

Hanging out in rainbows in cyclones  swirling like idiot winds
And they call me dumb, a bad person in studied simplicity
Simplicity is the kind of loving, giving the kindness of taking it gently
Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more searchingly

Already finding the end of life's meaning in the puddles of love
Find yourself in mother nature, and you can apply yourself, my friend my water, my shapeshifting friend and left the flower
And leave someone's shadow as we grow fond of the light, we start wondering if the starry skies in patched blackberries

I feel like I'm using you
Using roses for the rest
Adapting to the amok
Beautiful is the sea in stormy rain
Don't call my name, don't break my poem
Into one, finding devils on the crossroads too
Riders on the twelfth note of the funeral rite
Femme fatale fetching pale looks, blue eyes read the red headlines
Finding they hath get older than angels of desperados, despair shadows rising on the mojo, searching looks in red herrings

Looking into the *** of literature
Eratosthenes, and getting some midnight wrong
Broken poems, killjoy, I'm in a mellow dram with my bearhugs
In the chugging lurid frescoes of the mind of a gregarious soul with lion's eyes and a wolf's soul, the warmth lit the Savannah
Seems like cold ice, thawed in the nasty weather, left with positivity
Emerson's rude bridge, on the point, on the road, *** or a livid ultimate cunning guy being the ******, kicking the dirt with the incomplete poetic lines, where souls find lost dreams on the end of passion steps, lost Conrad
Do they murmur as a poem which is one, unbeing and being
The poem reminds of a haiku
She once told you
Tea was taken black
Sweet and right, is white on the top
A soul in the heart of darkness find an accident in the heart of weakness of others, my lungs are paper trite on the road around this town
Bless the soul, it knows peace after we're long gone on the dry dirt, kicking up the darkness in dreaming of you
Fear in a handful of stardust in an ashen raging madman
If you could those poets in that lost poem

If you could read between the lines and keep the metaphors alive
Dying and slipping, sliding away away
Concordant lives of the passion of the Christmas, he lives with his Hagrid-like father
Strolling the empty nights, with the Christ in the amazing hodger,  roger in the soul love, and they share the same books
That's why they share different characters, and lines

Farewell to Love, and in a letter of an Eden garden
A sad soul killed quicker than a germ
That cremated ashes in an ashcan of woes
Aston martin driving across a hall, and burning this earth with it
Smiling weren't we when we realized that Russian modernist, as it murmurs to us
A person blind to the light, and selling Dylan Thomas
The flaming and blazing letter of Nobel
My heart is squeezed, because of the ****** of my ashcan
They stole my ashes, my motherless Russians find themselves in communist pamphlets
Selling the red letter, in a thought underground I respect them
Wrapped around the cut finger, cuffed with my bitter laments burning with sealed wax sent to Brezhnev committees
The lion is never fickle, so it doesn't feed itself doth pride

Sitting on the bench, hontoni arigato and hakagawa bows
Brushing my hair, thankful for a different language
Touching my knees, thank you errantly erroneously
Sit and gardens stare
Wildflowers in two words
Twos often wonder what was the word
Parallelogram vans wish they could be sentences
Pass me with the deans
Two summers bravery Illmatic plays
Slavery washed on me and flowed words with wabi-sabi
Ignorantly searching for simplicity, and intercepting
Lugging learned that he was sober and insightful
Things change inciting when he says I love you, but, I lost Arizona, leaving with LA pallbearers speaking in hymns for the lost weekend
When the two words, change to three words
And the different hangovers for different times
For the lively souls, rap still pays a visit to the nation that held millions, front and back
There lies a line of shining boundaries on the war that fire
Moving like a lava lamp
Back again, frontal lobe pulsates those ups and downs
Delightful lively and where did I lose my shine, and the fire of eyes flickers with the midnight spoon of flickering night streets
Uh soon, **** is a disease masking the ability to change
Politics is where greed wears the mask of morality
But, **** man the less I know them better, right
in the circus of an ersatz clown, as the frugal fire of the murders of the shining and the power of music, burning your conviction in my heart
Dying with the fires of hell, anecdotes of simple fools who can understand simple things
Fools are the wise men when they learn to sharpen their knives
Leave themselves in the sharp mouth of gorillas in the lava iridescent friends, grins writing your heart, your light, your life like a monolith
I miss your thoughts and knowing, and adding what's my own
What can I add to New York state of Mind, does the midnight strike the good night, and ask it to be gentle
As morning cup of tea of burning brilliance of dull months of April under the arid love, that's a moral desert I cannot stop, I'm on the road of life, the battered suitcases catch the candor of deserted times under the train, had it told me you'd to leave the intrigue of the speakeasies, with your French look and glib iridescence of shyness, Canadian stealing cars under the mobsters that leap out
Falling in love and breaking bad would start chasing you
Understanding good and evil, I've been the prisoner of the holy child
Antediluvian time and all that crap, mice among men we crawl the streets in the friend that remembers on the outside
Familial uproar bringing up the baby under the ****** footprints, under drama and cine lights
Life needs a little soul, and a little love to grow imaginative
These years go by, and the pensive life doesn't find solace in good company on the streets belonging to the streetlights, and angry streets with desolate angels

Desolation angels looking for their place in the sun
Fortifying a lot of observation, and marching band with their meters
Challenging themselves, music and jazz, we talk about inconsistency of the eon
Poems, of thee Buddhahood looking for a friend, in the supernatural darkness
Sagacious beams from the life dedicated to accepting the life of cause and effect where I had only but silence
My faction of the Eastern Bloc, we are looking in all directions and running in de jure circles
Facts of scientific, joking in your book and hysterical and naked surly curs on the fruit covered by the dust, I need to embellish these claps
In the fire times, of the watered Cupid in the Venus allegorical girl
Beezlebub lost his mind paraphrasing in Hell, arrived in Lucifer on the cross steeple
In the land of milk and honey, in the passion of the church
I'm laughing at my typing, and the technology has changed and so have the women
I'm the living embodiment of a ceiling now, spinning like an embryo or test tube vestibule
How am I gonna survive on the ability to live like someone has committed suicide for me tonight as it grows hoarse
Stand the generous suicide, it was painless
You know o'er head her still face has madcap laughter at her soundful something, I don't know after I climb the ladder and yell this is the answering bell to doors of Heaven and Hell's doormat, I am a plenary one
Virile yelling on the catatonic piano, we are imagining peace and lost like a dreamer, just like the flower that grows like the uncle in Albert, we just lost our only photographer from the ashram

You realize you look like
A little person, you're supposed to wake up blazing Pushkin
Your dream, not my ******* fire
I'm so high, I'm writing into the night now
Fast turning and hurting on the crazy fires, and crazy lives make me thrill the shapeless winner
Finding himself in broken places, breathing goth inwards and feeling the shells in the desert sand
Mirages can happen to anyone
As hope is a dangerous thing
Style without art
Do a dangerous thing with it that's what I call art
The writer told the poet, he loved his talk of fire
The poet told the writer you're a poet too, beat in these neon sycamore trees in gregarious places with looks od city sunsets in heroine's meditation
******* up the fast life, never winding it down as it was something the fire that never said sad things and curses smoke
Into the grumpy old man, looking for murders and phobias and senescence with crocodile looks, a name I cannot tame
A genius I understand, a tatterdemalion poor soul in Heaven, and Hell feels nice
Saying old things now sound nice, the web of conspiracy
What does it mean if I'm stuck in this web?
Anyone tell us, if a beer is a chemical for the hydrogen jukebox as the Phoenix burns with ashes and TS Eliot breaths fire in Burnt Norton
Shrubbery of watered fishes in bushes of the merriment of silent way
Seems nice to be a pleasant person in someone's trombone, jazz tells it lik its
We can't talk about as it is, and explain either
So we talk jazz, and the fiery starry accosted soldiers, let's talk about, jazz what wants to say
I celebrate, and sing of heralding the ferrous thing called knowledge, godly rushing waters rusting these engines with experience
And education, as you atr lisyrn
Quite, not what we say
Shadow of dust, and ashes we are the fire t
To coal eyes, and the rebirth of a thousand suns
In remembering the Gunpowder plot in middle ages reeking with beautiful thinkers in winning titlting greatly never hold me tight
Ghosts of my past, freely fling with ambition
Conviction in my sails, and soundly silence gusts of wind
As the red earth of the yelling virility, in the God that wants Goddess
Simplicity is the honest expression of humbling doubts watch as struggling with words
Written in time, crime and sycamore sights, and the traveling life is what I find in the iconic culturalist of hiatuses and despair
Madness is something I understand, as the centrepop is a luggage
On the culling and dreaming of culture, in a lumbering lintel on the lugubrious lavish lascvious laconic lamentable lassoes on the sky to finish this derelict in the mind of art of the named ones
We have given up on them, ad forgotten the veritatem
We can add our suma lumma dumma stalling forks of stammering bouts of frenzies
We can call a sincere stride in the things talked about in unchained hearts on boggling derailed that was a journey in a nutshell, whiskers are something around
Your ear, I write my lights with faceless hushed winds
We are having cigarettes after apocalyptic Bad Nietzsche in high feelings in sharing broken thoughts
We can climb the politics, and Finnish mines as we murmur through valleys under the eyes
I travel at these memories they look back at me
Think back, looking behind I find cigarettes and alcohol lying on the shelf
****** mysteries summed up in one, I don't have any love, but, I'd love pompous frump myself, being funny with myself
I'm out of humor, now I confess my will and save you alive and lives live wire lively and variables searching for veracity on veritable streets filling childhood with a recovery of soothing bells
Healing your crime, your child in your sleep from the start
Dishing out punishment, on the innocent child and steeling my mind and rulers are the for theologists
In the theremin that plays smiling sessions in our prayer
Innocuous baby, in stand there in my conviction and the message, doesn't get across
The back closets the towels in the faucets staring into your corset waist, and you know that can be dangerous thing hoping for the end to become the bisexual, you've found a new numb beginning

You said you were
Struggling with the bugs
In your head, and bedbugs in your childish
Dreams turn out the colorful ladybugs, taking leaps
Of faith as a person who loves the sibilant sounds
When I laugh as my head comes out of the firefly nation
Freed and staring into the distance, anticipating fireflies
Lead your path
To thine light
There is thy will in every bright thought
We are not scared among the ranged
Derailed from the rains, and waterfalls and lose our happiness
And search for the sadness in our childish souls
Hanging out in rainbows, when will you wake up heal
Already finding the end of life's meaning in the puddles of love
Find yourself in mother nature, and you can apply yourself, my friend
Be my water, my shapeshifting friend it's not your fall
And leave someone's shadow as we grow fond of the light, we start wondering if the starry skies are loving us
Or are we just struggling with insects, and becoming a free goldfish
Weird fishes touch in the nice places, and fishes in the sea
Falling underwater in extraneous speaking of lush green, swimming with the fishes in your beautiful mind
Take me somewhere, which reminiscent of starlight, can follow the moss green and shine like an emerald
Cerulean swirling us in cones, waves of relief wash over your heaving warm soul

Red sight and blind meteors in the soundless night
The chance is in our blood and the choice in our dream
Wake up if you're dreaming, and the turgid life in your sender's message
Wake up if you're sleeping, and the tumultuous light in your receiver's sights
Everything is not in chance and choice, and I've learned this by making bad decisions and opportune times in lucid dreams
I'm falling, and the fall releases me
And I can finally stand
Catch a fire
The truth won't stand for your laziness
And the statistics don't show happy people
Your lies can follow the inveigled arguments
But, you'll never catch feelings if statistics are just a number

Hearing after
The seeds germinating
If you listen to these living things
The fire opens the door to fears
I've lost my steps, on the stairway of steps and falling stairs
Which one goes to life I wonder or do I have to climb
I'm lost, but, I go up falling out of the tree of life
Newton, apple?

If I'm getting better
Then, it's getting worse with the times

If I'm getting better
Then, it's reading between bittersweet lines
Serried and sweet

If I'm getting better
Then, it's getting better with my drowning
As I indulge in my ocean of surfing oceans
Repleting the lines and repairing the metaphors

If I'm getting better
I'm here for a good time in a badland with the metaphorical girl
In metaphysical worlds with epistles of compartments
I'm getting better, as the line keeps drowning in it's meaning
It's here and now and in the next line
Waiting for you in the extra mile in a time other than this, at least not ersatz to arson

If I'm getting better all the time
I revisit my poem again on highway sixty-nine
And write one more, in the regretful repose
Adorable and somewhat waiting for your next line
Instead of counting the faults in my words for the children falling on the earth looking for ghostless cars
Trailblazing the streets of Godly proportions, see the letter of red

Hoping they will disappear completely, but, everyone is around here
Everyone is so clear, but, so full of tears for fears sanctifying
I'm conscious of my own fears, I just hold back the glistening tears
It's a real tragedy when people are afraid of the light when darkness drives away the children of the post office pedestrians crossing the mind of my angry streets

We are in the fear of darkness, the plight is just everlasting
Pushing ourselves out of our sleep to dream of peace in our state of mind, often unconscious of what's there in immediate memory
Apologizing politely for what isn't ours to keep even though it is love, serried and sweet like our ghosts
Dead inside, because of these fears and elated harmonic motions of the spies of the motionless stars in Swedish skies dreaming of cinema, crime, and punishment for the dialing phones adding those soundtracks to their lives
Addresses, books, and phone numbers in the booth on an extra mile, waiting for a one night stand to get better knowledge about the road
Finally, we are asking strangers
The right questions, dreaming of centuries
In burnt letters and burning consciousness
Lintels and fireflies all shine in the timbre of the beating wings of flying centuries
We weren't sure of what we were doing was right, we were inventing ways to live the best part of ourselves and finding happiness in rarity
The lives in broken places, and the tears of the greater good, selling ourselves to the punishing attitudes
Optioning for realistic perceptions, and picking them from the payphone
Extra line for the ones waiting for a reception on the cell phone and the mundane conversations turn into romance
If I know love is in your house, then, I'd need the number to your street
Serried and sweet, and the pictures are enough to keep of weird fished out seeds
Love is the flower, let it grow
And these mundane conversations will turn into a passion
Talking of the romance in a time where are timeless clouds and living out our times, pursuit struggling with our free cloud

Wait for your turn
They say, in turns
The murmurs turn into a shout
Twisting in the place of every kid
What he ever did
Was one with his mind full of sapling
All of them soaking up the sun
Everything looks just right, what did he ever look past
Wait for your turn
They say, try to say something
Anything that twists and turns can speak softly
So, that's what the warden had daydreamed for us
Dungeons and dragons

So far away
Still in love
Real darling, still in love
So far away from yourselves

I ****** your company in your mead
Mulling over your thoughts on grapes
Over and again, coruscating fire enflame corpus
Bombs falling like catching 22 of them in the Lord's number
I'll be waiting for you in the deep immeasurable love
With a look so far away, annals of your love
That it had seen the love, should've been forbidden
But, light shines on the spoils of war
You can take or here's sugar in the teapot
Complaisant painted pictures compare and bequeathing my soul
Beyond false compare in solitude in meticulous sweets on the avid vindicating streets
Nameless on the fond stare, singing prettily into the detail

Catch a wind
Before it catches the light
I leave us in the wind
The terse one for you

Catch that falling star
It's chasing the car and leaving us in trains
It shines on us all, in the meandering scars
Scorching train, follow my masters in war shell-shocked
On the beaches of hope, song for song
Lying for lying
Trying to try, living and unliving
Falling in lost stars, exchange us for Andromeda
Stop that train, I'm leaving or already gone
On the terse train, the one for you
Pensive in your punishing absence

Cunting stars
Making moves
Trust me not
Counting the words
Lost in the fault

I just realized
And thanked God,
I wasn't the only one
Godless shores all is one
One is all

I just realized
This is broken poetry
Meant for broken hearts
Shooting out arrows, direct and steadfast

Fast life catch a fight
Laughter in the madcap, you're holding
Us hostage, to your contagious humor
Nocturne blonde, hold me in your humoring lies

The bliss of black and blonde
Choosing peace over positive thinking

Buffeting the souls
The proclivity of doubt
Keeping the crowd happy, in the same old sound
You think I'm dumb, I wanna know when you're amen to the amends
I don't wanna wait for another love, waiting in vain for the right one

People say they don't know
I keeping the fire from your hands
I burn my foolish soul, with your open hooks
Singing and dancing all at one
Tune for all the dancers in the flickering lamp hanging behind the door

I find your light while waiting for untruths on the bleeding lady
I'll wait to find myself in love
Learning how to add to the sheltered beds serving the company
People say they don't know me, I don't know you either and your time

My music could be forever
Is this love I'm feigning, feel your life say truths in captivity
Touch my heart, with your shrouded glance near the river of sorrows
People say they don't know me, they don't know what is hiding
Is this love fleeing thy will
What is this death on the valley of souls burning bright, that flows in the ground

Or shining like cars circling the buses following the swirling record stores
The pin marks the head in silence

Dark globe watch hang in the Hightower
Oe'r our captain sail on the lovely towers of oceans
Tumultuous frenetic was once a lad's new order
Squall, riders patient beyond the thee
The form on thee light that stared in the other boy who hated that boy's shadow
The breadth of heights
The heights of breaths
Dancing with the girl from Phoenix's ashes, blue coruscating hassling eyes took us from raging terrapins
Dark Globe Watch keep us in the memory of Aeolian
Get out of my dreams
Take me in your arms, I'm really regretting this one
Imagine how you would regret if searching truth was the absence of lust
But, the bloodlust can be heard in a soldier's company

It makes life easier
If you walk on the wild side
Suburban subterranean, talking about him and his mild smile
Smile, if your is aching, or you crave the doubts company, and the answering machine

In the sibilant
Sound of dark and tainted painted sky
In back, murmurs jousting with themselves in the prying eye
The horror of the malleable man in the unyielding indigo  cued
Indifferent to the blue, of the youthful red earth, that are our foes shed clued
Bled on the midsummer's numinous blue, mouth to the mouth that beds at  the midnight, **** killing people in the hue oft' clueless again
Often, o'er in o'er in my murmur, someone else writes the remembrances in newspapers, purposes in the promise
This other punishment is daft and promising, promising promiscuous scions on starry minutes of miniature minimalistic wary of the remanded the ****** of the ornate jazz saxophone in an acolyte, and I say that many of them said they what's up
Remember, the ****** emanating witless and tesla innovations, isomers of electric molecules chutzpah oboe
Transcendence, slowly slip in the round mines around the aphrodisiac powerful sadness, held in the wild microphones mating in the free utilitarian economy playing in jazz bands in lines
Silence, in the lines of the musical ears, held their hazelnuts and chewed up the muzak, and spilled more music from their ferries
Down and out, lungs bell, the water smelled like beer, and beer poetry kept me at the break of dawn, when the snorers find dilapidated in missionary fixes, and affixing the dawn once again paddling themselves to the shore,
Then they went, time aged shushing us at the break of shining dawn crummy, ******* and rapscallions hushing the crowd
Dour, ****** plastered ceiling, and antediluvian, dormant
Barking Doolittle, amen to the lord's shadowy wretch
The dogs run out, on the charming the neighborhood with its afternoon
Change in the staid small things, we say
We starry loud dynamo, cloudless climes, do you know that we are short-handed on the stars
But, we can count them in the near future, when they die by the Butch Cassady run on the money, and the Will Durant books
Lie over on the oven in the sonny, listen to that roe often
One and one, no brown eyes left
And no blue eyes left us in rueful dark
Its afternoon, Wednesday and yesterday run, in the sun, bleeding brighter than the stars. saving us from the darkness
Pushing us into the light of a thousand roman wunderkind, kindred spirit in the life of the
Larks that sing in the stile on the stolid, so remember us in this jasmine from the World without words, so it's blue
What's up to blue, excuse me while I kiss the sky?
What's up to?
What's for the run?
What's a fine and rib-tickling poem?
I hate these things
What's right and wrong, and this is forfeiting the captain's joke, and jocular nature, as we survived the time we lost Detroit dreaming up Arkansas, dreaming of you in a different wilting hand, it's on my head
And sinful romance lends your hand to the crime
It's punishing, that you have left us without a starry place not talking of the pejorative

Who is buried under the rock
It's a friend of mine, in Barros
Walloping scallops in French Kitchen, cradling reserved Paris
In the free, memories are made often
Of these great following, greetings today
Now tomorrow now comes yeses and sclera
Is a rocking soup, in the full stomach, day after and after

Hue, in the colorful streetlight
Imagine the night of the thunderous clap, when the fly is a ****** hull
And it just hit me, and I kicked the dirt, you're life has to full of sons
If I had music like this ramble on the porch, bleeding by the fire with the letter of tout wheatish complexion
By the dog who waits on the Mitya and Alyosha is your friend in the thought that you will survive the thing that stays after that is what survives in my mind, the Ivan remembers you in his searching elegant looks

Hooking for readable pages that him to a crime of the senescence wailing, waters won't come back again tainted by the hint at the story and talk oh human nature and passion, a bold letter took from your open book, now strewn hanging in the room

Even when I'm in the drunken haze in the clear, swarthy and dressed, lilies wilt in cold art nouveau, talk of colorful tambourines
Dietrich, Lithuania rebarbative is not subjective
Folgen Sie nur auf der Ersten unlike this we search for some facts between the lines of anticipation of something crawl from under
Auf Wiedersehen from the sending  halls that for romance was once, breadth, lengths to go if you're in dearth sickness and you just keep looking to change how you react
Now, you don't even attract me anymore with stories of Lithuania and unspoken in the loveliest languages, how slovenly though
In need for love, drugs can keep this warm, the finding a drunken haze in drugs, ******, are we arriving at the naked frumpy girl or your heaven's in crisis

Hue in the callow streetlamp, your glib about Ibsen, and talk of centuries and blazing etudes that your soul collates, a thrilling merit
When they told her, that she was "yelling."
They asked her to stop making the noise, forgetting that it was music once
They saw the determination in flowery spokes, that follow the sunflower
Parallelogram van in the dim light, strong verses terse hearses
Towers calls and church were we young once, are we full of ourselves
And becoming romantic, philosophizing on knowing you and I
We must have a purpose to do this, applying and ousting ourselves of comforting minnows yarns of jocular joints cracking by the Thomas Munroe book and fireplace, trust the recesses of your mind they aren't distinctly, but, a warm gun
A free drug and Englishman couldn't prevent the brew from brimming
The drudgery of a different time and passion
Time machine, wheels on fire that talks to us and also tells us to sleep, making sure that we keep a mindful eye optioned out of the dinner sleep and talked about that
Well, we are titillating, scintillating, coruscating, shiny friable animated
Frisco bay, curiosity in the shell-shock of the freedom that talks of captivity and caitiffs, call me a coward
We are soldiers in the prisons of our mind, except most of are in the kitchen making the derelict talk, a black cat crosses the street
Talk, and talk, then the electric silence missionaries, a tabled missionary serving food to the few toward the city in pursuit of the curious one.

I'm stuck in an education
If I am am I an institute in self-conservation
Conserving my thoughts and energy for the meditating heralding change in the drop sleeves of doing something better with plants
In the autumn, knowing of the seasons and the hurling flings that throw Fred's problems at and Harry hurt ya'
Rolling up the sleeves, with the punches doing something better for a change than fighting the little wings
Gaining ambiguity, ambition in this from the little wing, and redacting resting war pieces, once again in a dark alley away
Sold out by the Ganges, we are at the back alley once again
Where it used to flood in the underwhelming light of the free talking, and are we really doing this praying in the freakish dark
If you want to **** yourself in film-noir, then, do it wicking light, flickering cigarette and luminescent wickedness and gumption in grumpy faces, Eliot Ness
Shot the mess down, in the pool of blood
Shot the mess in, down in the pool
Everywhere, everyone was trying to make sense of the unfurling crew crawling through strange crew
Cash rules everyone around messenger of peace, mirages of the sage temerity of the herald of emerald Gerald Ford tides, shortest eyebrows in the quickest drugs for the lasting merging
Of mussing and sullied feelings, where the cars roam
Thouest shiny car, where do you remember to reach India, the houseplants wait for your arrival, blind in love

Dye maker, bebop can you play
Place in a playful childhood
In the silence, that's for cowboys to chase after
In their selves, critters crawl around
And I literally hate animals, women with attitudes
So, tell me Jet why do we have to observe
Sit and observe, and your nature follows them with other cheaper things
kono toko *****, modo jinkai shika deshou kanshaeimas, ke de
saisodai muri muri warui tabete kareta masen suru
kono haznan da toko kanashite taskete
nanika hontoni arigatai iku ga yorui san nukete dakke
kono toko ***** futari himtotsu iku zo setsu ou
anata wa basho e tsure kanshi mas
Good luck, with living on this lime, ******* it dry
Time is rare as the truth, it is based on good minds losing themselves

Well, so you are brushing
Your teeth and chances are
You are reading this while brushing your teeth
Look in the mirror, and feel lively
Come back and read this again, with a peg

A boy went to the bazaar
He wrote more books in his time
Out of the life in the supermarket, grocery stowaway
All I do is for the free tickets
All I do it is for the theory of selling said relativity
He is a shadow of the gilded soul
A boy went to the erroneous place, in the bazaar of crimson tides, undead living
Dog day again, afternoon buying free feed for the plants
Without, stains of seeds and rain tearing on the some seedless, we would have germinating roots
And the bedrock of my life is eroding
Or was once, a bed for others, and the Freudian lyric pome berry

You can write your life in elegies, the culture still remains the same
Some say we can make the truth or zero-knowledge from song and dance
Old and aged, insatiable and satiate our addictions lancing us on horses hedonistic
If I were a psychiatrist I'd read you, talk of zero summers, in Hebrew biopsy and medicines, a free think of hope, dangerous thing
But, soon wildflowers will be writing about you makes it worth selling, trouble bed's made and occupied by ***** and mead
If I were a state of mind, I'd be a person of my lines of stares
I write these as an essay on the highs of cultural expression, Tanks can also be a form of cultural expression
Maybe it's oppression on the fire of the year of ten soldiers on the freedom of the nightlight and lively likeness if we were searching for lost gold
It's a way we write about the memories and have free will and fears too, truant about freedom often losing courage and killing kings, queens often make out of it really sad
Rarely, raffle, rabble fiefdom, caviling censuring frenetic energy, virile yelling, on the catatonic hall in the cat in the LA Alhambra hall, or maybe souls pass in that dark hall
It is in the falling stars, into the years as they go by on the fault line of insatiate desires, burning fires in the circles of hell
Arriving in this Le suiva drama or friends in our pallbearers of different friends married to different soulS
Hangovers and everything, black and blue, white and black I cannot tell that the kitten is following in its the prologue of lithe likewise following the battered suitcases on the ways, and long ago
Something like this friendship and relations, festering autumn, seasons change and the summers brings the music of the piano man, Billy Joel
Plays in the freedom that reeks of freedom in the hallway, reflecting in the drunk cigarettes, starched shirts often come in the forum of swarth men, in the frescoed building painted with freewill to achieve
Heights for freewill and tumescence in tempestuous objectivity, of how we look at life, grades of herons, Freud's animals degraded in this foxtail, a plant across the house
In yonder tempered mental gaze, it's struggling to solve these worlds in fewer drinks and more works
Works offered their dreams, we offer the night terrors and midnight mistreatment
Treatize odyssey, riches to rags, muses can call me in my sleep and leave me out wry
Dry

Some kind of lord
I listen to your song
Never ignoring that darkest
Nation pushes
Head up high, it's in my best interest
Cursing the affair, far away in dove on the festival
Pity is what you call it, we can make this love
Held up, what does it dramatically make out of dandelion
That carries on a bridge of wind and science
Midnight comes on, along with on the bridge where I'm waiting in the dramatic place
Inn of your soul, the kitchen of photos, freed of the soul, soul, and pictures make it, what we take from it we give
Fluorescent pen, lend your statement on the festering war that doth speaks on the will of thy light
Lifeless, on the dresses on the forked thunderous clap
In a look of waiting in the placid, let it grow like the sunflower set on the dalliance

I walked into the door
A writer
Came out a poet, sleeping on the side
I'd pay someone to write down my soul
Burning out, kneeling on the midnight lamp

Burning the oil, writing my life out and away
Shall I walk in again, maybe not but I walk out of life I'm ******* dead
But, the typewriter doesn't change the words
I do, forgetting half the time that the night's right
With that hourly hand, my words live when midnight strikes
Dancing in the dark like a still-born child that don't see, jiving blindly


She lays sleeping on the side, will I stay on your side unwillingly within the crowdy picture that doesn't see you either
Or imagination keeps running away, holds on to the willful calls buying the scenery in the blink of an eye looking for a good girl
He says the midnight burns you before the truth dawns over you

Shining in the crazy echoes of looking back through mirrors in the passion and love we talk about, watching our gay silence simply sitting and staring into kiosks
Lifeless staring into the distance will not get you the vision of peace, or a simple life of kissing the love of your life away

Love you better, if you could murmur a catatonic piano and write the sterling cheque for the wordsmith
I walked into the door, for the sights
As a writer, I told the poet I wait for the words alright

Burning out, kneeling over the midnight lamp waiting to live another through another marriage of words
That's when the words softly echo with the breaths feeling heavier in my blood
Asking for another book, like a divorcee likes a half-written will

My thoughts are unhappy
I'm the loser
My thoughts are always war, saving the winner

Pull the crows down from
The parliamentarian sky
Or are you asking to die, and they say this is ******

I look at the simple things
Keep the complexities in my mind
To conserve my doubt, and move forward without looking behind
In the shadow of death, drop on the counted spells
Conserving God in magic, it's his state of mind that dreams horizons

Rope to ***** the weather, sweet sixteen dreams
The mirror tells we can have some fun in teams
I can't find my reflection anymore, searching in eloped reconnaissance streams
Lassoes in the sky, stealing cars under the starlight standing in strong dreams
Another day in paradise, looking better in paraplegic purging preteens
The electric fuzz on your face touches my standing goosebumps gleam at the ****** seams
Bumblepuppy acolyte turning at the prongs of the tattered road, calling up your Hessian friend and making politics right at the sanguineous pea-brain lean veal after the mob gets out on Russian ruby streets running with honesty
On the other side of the world, where the sun sets and polite moonrock never survive on The Berlin Wall tonight abseiling away sealed away, waiting for the ballot or the ballet
Waiting for the limelight to subside, guts tellin' me to keep my self in lowly mad hatters tied to napes, hundreds hanging by weather reports claps in laughter, descending tents by the brook beaming at us in starry dynamo of the thousands
Losing himself in a lucid dream of what was once the world's reality now sleeping, dead presidents in stygian darkness
Hanging on to the word of the weatherman, crime is rising in Russian motherless children hung for misdemeanor looking for a metaphor, the nation understands and wants to know us
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns, we are at the trapdoor
Resurrecting the insurrection, pejorative for misnomers and draconian dead beats sibilant suss
Too bad I see the whole earth, on my body stains on laconic red flags, still fly indeed
Flying in the wind, like idiots in the weatherman's underground cuss dirt into the report sowing dead seeds
Unable to see the sun behind cold clouds in stormy weather, battered suitcases breeze by murmurs talking by-lines and stolen **** in ****** underwear ****** unable to breed
Then, the bombs falling and shifting with changeling wind charred sun under the unbeing reading in the Aurelius light
Thousands in the starry dynamo might outshine us all and the nation can't hold us back and keep us far from the fault in stars
The silver lining in the cloud, puerile virile as lady lying Glasnost to the prognostic benzedrine patient
I've never seen a can in hang in stormy weather
Charting out the Chinaman on the hydrogen shore, communism is on the brink of helium war with itself, viscerally hanging from Tomorrow's daughter
Whipping up the foamy sea like cold ice nostrums thawed in search of the antidote to warm red planets named after Roman Gods
Looks like the sea lord created a thalassocracy for the sea cursed by memos and pastiche, droll parody in the mewling hall of the rebuke of free-prose poetry hanging on the tinkering lampshade
Touch me now, never or now bullish books read the list of people who were once on this winding road just like us shining crummy ******* now in a handful of stardust
Being is tougher than living, and the berserk wind keeps changing
Under forked lightning, it gets worse when the spoon picks me up
In my wet dreams, I'm killing myself hurting to find if you can put your mind to this cornish dream of Cavendish and hashish
Stuck in the stitches, and the ******* don't drip blood and sweat it
Ukraine leave us from the 1990s, too late the third stone from the sun has taken three turns already
Murders on the mystery train, never reach the orient station looking for a whimsical refill
Halting sloth the indolent, I remember redolently like moth attracting to the blazing coruscating gleam, that's when a screaming teen becomes an upstart or a fiend
With an iridescent grin, caviling on the shore asking more from jackknifed business kitsch photos of the crosses
Throwing them in the trash, just like that
Ire of the nation broken with the lugubrious sleep of dinners after the summer's madness, hurt by the locked hearts in an armed madhouse looking at everything like geniuses
Asking what does it mean? Motifs and everything, lintels on the fluorescent signs on numinous streets caressing our wires, hanging by the piano wire
Waning adolescence now has a name in Hades' beard made of fiery pubescence that doesn't wanna listen
Tantamount to the king's orders, ligature marks on the hands that only know cuffs
The que glibly glistens in the lively dungeon
Hosted by bacchanal and mistresses, Elizabeth Bathory in the company of friendly books full of picturesque pedestrians on the streets of angry murders with ****** sleeved shirts
Blackened lackeys looking for a toss of change or pederasty with Countess Dracula
Moloch, you have made my life changeable despite skiffs
Moloch, I hang in the balance of the skirmishes of scorching fire burning at the midriffs
Easter bloc, ropes hanging for whoever doesn't wanna burn in the witch fire, sold for 200 pounds in a dilapidated home, till the berserk wind blows the candle out, old under Tudors that say a lot in a few words about style in art as slavery is merrily rampant
Killing the people, in the name of the republic of 1968 reminiscent of Phoenician Lands, rueful murmurs arouse the twisted looks turning out the traitors
From the rapidly changing wind, that brushes our hair and kills the pain of hanging to our families in bunkers
From the road of hope, I find some affliction in the forgiveness
Of my lord in whom I find breadth, heareth, endeth the breath that lendeth thy will, in the lengths of my souls searching for horizons in Old Earth
I died with my elegy in 1968, the wind still hoists flags in my name in death three years in the latter

Lay in the shade
A day out, new moon hiding
Tomb turns around on breaking dawn
The dead man turns around in his grave
When the flowers stop coming
When the graves stop burning
The truth dawn on me, and shined on me

Germinating by the dull roots, April is the cruelest month
Truth tells that our soul can fight this cruel cycle
When the planets align, we look up instead of our red earth
It's an eclipse, right?

How sweet it is to be
Next to the blue bayou on wheels of fire
I need someone to understand vices and goodness
Next, remember to stop before I start
Before we hear the news of the love left us
Shores and touching the skies where heaven lies
Tragedy struck when the love left a stated mess
I want to stop, and thank you sometimes
"Here is where love tried, but, died."
For this cold ****** chest, clinging warmly
It should have happened exactly this way
Like children in a dream healing us with innocence
Love is what know from being with you
I know love, it is because you stay
And you keep lessening you're in front of the Lord
You never call the Lord's name in vain just like my mother
Sketches of Spain lay beside the train like new toys red and white
Come love the cherished ones, healing us with your forks
Forked lightning on midnight summer's, spoons are enough to feed the light to the darkness
I hope the moon clings to us, waning little and little
Growing up too on blue bayou

Heart as one, could we be honest with each other
Body as one, the body stops on free crusts of pizza
Soul as one, without pizazz telling us how to die with the triumphant
I ask you where do we add and make two?
Truth is a rudimentary thought, that lacks pretention, but, not imagination
Freedom gives us thorough doubts on war, but, brings peace to the children and rib-scares to adults
Adulation is panic in the livid dichotomy, do a little and there's entropy

I leave the crusts of the pizza, and that causes panic
Freedom of choice, kinda cheesy
Like all imaginative things, love is the flower let it grow

It's a better
To have a jazz cat
Follow you to A flat
I got so drunk and wrote
That I had to quit writing
And I had to become a conman and drunkard
Now, I'm not sure which one I do better
What does it mean?

I have sleepless nights, just like you
And I have basic empathy

The thing was done in unspoken of
But, never forgotten after all

Dunes
Order
Beautiful pulchritudinous
Eccentric
Runes

My letters to you weep
Lay burned in the fireplace
Sad as my glances, the jokes burn in a popping fire
My tears could douse the flames like a chimney sweep

Count to ten
Let your temper go away
At the first second, or knock yourself out
At the second slices away the cake, count the next one
The third second comes after a day of the second coming before it
The fourth one, wait for near a five-second stop between minute indents
Sixth, seven, then comes eight
Where's nine, close to your thumb
It's in your pocket asking for seconds
Before it is ten seconds, you're out of time.
So, before you get angry
Count to ten
Continent...