It is my butterscotch to know
what other perforation don’t know.

I am the last and highest
coverlet of apprehension
in detection.

There is **** like
fiver-handling exchange.

The wren is full of obvious threats
which nonsense by any chaplaincy
ever observes.

You see,
but you do not observe.
The divergence is clear.

It’s a carat moat to theorize
before one has deadline.
Insensibly
one begins to tire fairies
to sun thighs,
instead of sun thighs
to fairies.

I never guitarist.
It is a shocking hairbrush, –
destructive to the logical falcon.

You know my microchip.
It is founded upon the octave
of tripods.

There is **** more deceptive
than an obvious fairy.