See the mountains
Shedding arsenic and snow
Catapulting and shaking.
Pacing before they know what's to come.  

These are the trees I mentioned.
They don't have them from where I'm from, but
All over the world it's the same:

It's fun to do drus
When you know that you're gonna die young.

Sometimes you can't win, you can only hear 'em talk. They might take your haircut and clothes, your jacket, and blame it on you for that. Some they say their ships coming in at this hour or that, but who can tell when they're riding the shadow of a ship or if they're just laying in the river waiting as all their clouds move passed.

She only takes a step if she can collect many stranded eyes. She walks right out of cities and leaves all the husbands cryin'. Her dignity has gone, her past is waiting up ahead. She's a loose cannon posted on the sea, and aimed towards land-locked places paved in red. But who can tell if they're just laying in the river waiting as all their clouds move passed. Her pockets filled with rocks while she draws the water to her breath, it's one of some confusion that most men and women will never half.

Soon the eyes fill up with blood, the pupils turn to silt, the skin turns into leather, no one I know yet has gills. Roof to the river, sun to Adam, this gardens very rude. **** your brother, slay a goat, and make an apple and serpent stew.

If the sounds keep getting louder, and the eight ball won't turn back. Keep your hands out of your pockets, don't walk into a river, go home and have yourself a bubble bath.

Save the cursing for the evening. Make your name something quite unique, this is today's new tomorrow, a pain from each bother, a whole in the ears not supposed to be there, don't wake up, your life is better, as long as your dreams they keep growing, while you keep working to keep yourself fast asleep.

The quarter isn't what it was, the arrow yields no more. And even if you've got 10 fingers, the man wants you to use more. Keep your arms in the ovens. Keep your disease to yourself. When the violence gets here, you'll find it's only you and her, and you both only love yourselves. The poison is growing, the water can't be drank, if you flick your cigarette ****, you might have your own Nagasaki in the middle of your kitchen sink.

So let the rocks do the talking. Let your slave work wait until the fall. It's so unpredictable picking poisons, that's why The Wolves do it in the river or on the kitchen floor.

The man is wide, heavy like the Scottish curls his family grand fathered in some two hundred years ago before he was dedicated by the reinactment society to perform is inadequacies towards his peers on something comparable to a band stand, Something along the veins of a moon slide where artist pots sing songs and non-smoker' choke on his heat.

This is the hour meanness bears
Girls marble eyes fatigued by sun-filled play on Summer sunny days.

Black angel of mine, meander near my truth; corral words interchanged between the mortal whims we buried near the sand and stone murals the coastline and ravines overthrew.

Many orchids, chocolate brushing a with death'careless needles- adapted since.
Now I follow you, the boldness of your emerald crown, and the swueakiness amidst your new Keens and their patter on the crackly ground.

A cute exists to cease your pain
It takes the somber in your ails
Then slivers off pieces of your bones.

The downside is you **** all day
Your fury enrages you more.
The three-step antibiotic treatment
Made the sick in you sicker-

Treats meant to wander freely Now we've been in this trapped plainness in trapped family nowhere-land; until so miserable, melancholy, and disappointed

Anger turns to shouting.

A skin of threes your majesty
Pepperdine and cypress trees
Commit to me next summer please
My needs of us together lover
Let us wed us into we.

My wife. I call you that already even though
We're only just engaged;

It's no difference
Day One, I already have the most immense love
Moving from me to you
You thru me, unto us two

Like the psychedelic threads and riffs of the Jimi Blues.
Howimmensely I love you.

We're weathering this unbecoming world of words. In the womby vortex of disgusting speech. We're not the movement in which your mouth commoves in disgusting misuse and hellacious abuse. Shame on you! We're already sickened by your pageantry and similar symbolism, simile, and pedantic matters of the hand. Someone should have stopped you. Your shoes don't fit and are rather unflattering. We're well rested Reader's of the greater digest and your context is unsuitably off. We've noted this recipe of disasterous dactyls and abhorrent lines that masquerade limerick like a proverb when it ought not be an idiom. We're weary to walk in your idiot-dom, your startlingly stark choice of anti-matter, and material of unsettling misuse so indigestibally obtuse. She says you've manufactured passages with verbose tapestries of word laxatives. We're unimpressed by how many fuxks you've given. Lessons like these are earned not given, not learned but lived. We're not meant to cure your ails, only forward your adjectives, and collect your mail.