It’s just sew embossing to put this imprint, butter goes.

Sum tines it feels like my thoughts are just a slurries of malapropos. One right have to another.

I never know what’s coming hexed out of my mouth.
Do you heal me? I’m just slay’en.

Bereave me, it’s twines like these I can’t strand to be a wound myself either.

To parallel Virginia Wool, I need a loom of one zone
To un-tango my thoughts and find dancers to these questions.

Cod-Lamb-It-All-To-Health!
Cheese-IS-RICE!
Will this Rever-end?!