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ꜱᴜᴢᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇʀʟɪɴꜱᴋʏ
Poems
Jan 5
A day after the cows ran away, we ate their hay. After the shop burned to the ground, the owner could not be found. He's in hell now sharpening pencils, putting ointment on his *** and cutting out stencils.
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ꜱᴜᴢᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇʀʟɪɴꜱᴋʏ
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