The puppet's second awakening is a knight of crusading, evils boots I bet are quaking, especially when his sword starts shaking.
Though made of wood he's hardly bored, he's killing all the little lords. Royalties high but he'll bring them low with one fell swoop and mighty blow.
Arrows cut but they don't dry, fires good but you just try. He's got a shield it's good for blocking, you better be ready when he comes knocking.
All in all he's quite the lad, made of wood and iron clad. And with his holy cross of might he'll slay all evil in his sight.
I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.
Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.
— The End —