I sing of arthritis, whose shaft is old, who limps slow the grounds, the pure maiden, old hag, who delights in laughing without teeth, the sisters to apoplexy, he with the limp sword, over the shadowy hill and wind worn peaks, she draws her insulin syringe, rejoices in the chase and yearns for sugars, the barren topped mountain trembles, and the tangled words echo
with the outcrop of forests not tended since 1959. But, the goddess with an old heart turns every way , belching and farting, voraciously, so
maybe ****** is needed.