Gift to me gifts, sure! not your present pleas
-Ne'er take me for the motley foolish things.
If truly ****- poor posture deadened Grief,
(Where late thee adored thee, got thee by the cruelest means.)


Wish duly this, you're not sure, pressing needs
-There may be morphine by the tulip leaves.
It's to me this: pure, hot, for less than these.
Share, make me more; free not the ghoulish wings.

Which doobie hits? Forgot your lesson, Steve?
Swear they need Morning Time, it's the newest tease.
This truly is, more, (not for questioning.)
Where maybe pure themes rhyme with the truest ease.