Soggy, forgotten rotten eggs. Sink side. Gobbledy gnus cruising, fast acting cheetah be cheetah for the eggs are scare and the Time is new. The few are no longer fastened tightly to these hatchlings, the weather is near and all the tides are complicated. I could stand around in my underwear, but there isn't a single night song or nightengale that would hear me. There's a thud on my head and a knock on the door, I can't sing my best, or try to impress thee. All of these letters un rest to the sound of your voice, even in calfskin a vegetarian can begin to have trouble breathing.
To the cables that untie thlemselves to a broom in a paradise, Pacific, galore. Forgot to. Invested. Contained poorl and drunks stowed in the holograms of hand-me-down prisms, here comes the infectuous lonely ol' lamb. This is the ewe song that sings you to sleep, keeps the sweat in your underwear. Where there is hunger there are poor but my gold chants forward to this Armageddon's sway.
If it means it in Greek than it does in cyrillic, if it's toxin you have rotted your bell. Inside my pink, neon briefs is a tale of insanity, where I had tried to squeeze out every ounce of relief that commenced while I was asleep.
There was only ever one of us that ran with the turmoil that romance does. Terminal two, Arizona-flu, carried through the ORD concourse I heard a saxophone tune. Final approach, a yawn. I'm home drinking vodka at 9:00am with my PJs on.