A boy went to the bazaar
He wrote more books in his time
Out of the life in the supermarket, grocery stowaway
All I do is for the free tickets
All I do it is for the theory of selling said relativity
He is a shadow of the gilded soul
A boy went to the erroneous place, in the bazaar of crimson tides, undead living
Dog day again, afternoon buying free feed for the plants
Without, stains of seeds and rain tearing on the some seedless, we would have germinating roots
And the bedrock of my life is eroding
Or was once, a bed for others, and the Freudian lyric pome berry