The vapors fill my lungs my tubes, cut; harass me, like the patterns on the floor.
Coloured coils that weave the coiled cord that strings together; tie his values and his legacy ~ a genius descending his coordination; losing his purpose; his time.
My ******, my sweet ******, my lady likes to walk with me, but she an’t free; my lady likes to walk with me, hand in hand.

People barren fruit so lost abused and misused the lie denies me; uncoordinated me the passers by the public, bathed in boredom weaving comfortably the flame; the final flame well the flame that could be final; that flame that could be final!
My lady likes to walk with me, but she an’t free, my lady likes to walk with me, hand in hand.