I trust not; in all; let alone the one; he who heeds deeds and misleads; let alone lately, late lasting lily lake light-outs, and a fragrance of brothels; let alone ladies; whom shiver in timbers of whimsical whispers; warriors and such, just not so much; let alone stabbing knives, the whirlwind winds, the ancient mimes of moonlit jives; deserted by sunrise, blessed with nocturnal eyes. I trust not; verily; to shout merrily; we were here once; within that shrouded ponce; alas, it has come to pass; a shiny piece of glass; and contemporary jazz; I reminisce on bliss; a dire pegasus; a daring precipice; the circus maximus; hands aloft in the great gymnastic overthrow of ages. In the wake of a blunder, we all stand asunder; clutching crutches, avoiding crunches, unaware of blind arms carrying lame legs forthward, essentially; a wisdom of ages; a grasp of sages; locked cages, and a heap of pages. Resent me not, for I have sought, in the wake of the wry; a luminous high; lustrous and illustrious; foretold stories of quandary, and magnificence; where have we gone; to reach such lowly heights; what have we sown; to silence so prone; and much to condone. Take me back; to the dream so lifelike of circles; take me to the midst of a wardrobe of callous miracles…  
…and I will know what I like;
I will know what I like.

A mastodon of grieving age filled the spectacle of times past. A rover of red in a jacket of green, to forward a foreword, the four-letter word; to endow the knight stars in velvet jades. Deeds and tumbleweeds and beetles and trenches; seize the days gone by to build a fortress of hangars. Bogotas and Bugattis creak doors wide shut, halfway there through the thoroughfare. Absolute is obsolete, bear in, child, dear and mild, and a clock goes tick tock. A hissing sore, to kiss and roar, the wild boar steps out the door. Rhythm and rhymes; the ancient mimes of windpipe chimes; whom seek dimes and memorable times. The jades bleak of charades and stepping stone parades, contemplating foals and shoals and riverbed holds. The Moonlight sonata jumps and soars to come back down the upstair, through internal voids of night; whom take home the earnings and yearnings of early morning wars.