WINE AND GATES
Rare Ages Of Shoes With Bell's Utterly...?
pass
the potatoes
my name for it, was
the heathen king of woes
drama from a fly on the table
speed and special, a wink of dim intent
the rule of yet in the mud, though the cult of able
is a wishing hair on your head, lament
seasons come and go, before the fly speaks again
the more you dump the spurilous not
the more the knots has a spite for sin
walking this way and that, the day may turn out be hot
splat?
where are your manner's?
death needs a napkin, a spin of sates
is no place to wink and wonder
before long the potatoes went cold
the race for urgent bread rolls had become the decision of the eve
the truth in deaths knee and the savage aspect of whimsy to scold
the fly got the last one, where even the doles of liberty save the dread of conceive
the question was this...
an inkwell turned over is these...
a suicidal bird in the window gives yonder bliss...
are you ready for the rest of the story to be...
penny's in the hand of a noted day
where have the kings of sought ices and the flame of vices been?
the scope of youth is a former thing, the prescience of gains and gay
the total of liberty to find, is the bell of blood for a quieter kin?
the shape of things to son
is your hex of senses the better breath of sincerity to keep a whimsy's dragon
the prayer of home, in my memory is a wall of martyr's, for cunning
the spill of elements, are we such and more, the business of with's wagon
the truth is in the power to know
the decency of answers of the moment of exception, like a hand
the age of needs is a reason for seclusion of the soul as a tool of owe
this meager salt, is for you, the keep of the bargained land
epitaph to an otherwise burdening belch
the notch of kind, is your face a personal best
for a beckoning terror of since, the mystery of anger over worth, else
this peace of butter and the take of pepper, if only sugar to attest
the potatoes
my name for it, was
the heathen king of woes
drama from a fly on the table
speed and special, a wink of dim intent
the rule of yet in the mud, though the cult of able
is a wishing hair on your head, lament
seasons come and go, before the fly speaks again
the more you dump the spurilous not
the more the knots has a spite for sin
walking this way and that, the day may turn out be hot
splat?
where are your manner's?
death needs a napkin, a spin of sates
is no place to wink and wonder
before long the potatoes went cold
the race for urgent bread rolls had become the decision of the eve
the truth in deaths knee and the savage aspect of whimsy to scold
the fly got the last one, where even the doles of liberty save the dread of conceive
the question was this...
an inkwell turned over is these...
a suicidal bird in the window gives yonder bliss...
are you ready for the rest of the story to be...
penny's in the hand of a noted day
where have the kings of sought ices and the flame of vices been?
the scope of youth is a former thing, the prescience of gains and gay
the total of liberty to find, is the bell of blood for a quieter kin?
the shape of things to son
is your hex of senses the better breath of sincerity to keep a whimsy's dragon
the prayer of home, in my memory is a wall of martyr's, for cunning
the spill of elements, are we such and more, the business of with's wagon
the truth is in the power to know
the decency of answers of the moment of exception, like a hand
the age of needs is a reason for seclusion of the soul as a tool of owe
this meager salt, is for you, the keep of the bargained land
epitaph to an otherwise burdening belch
the notch of kind, is your face a personal best
for a beckoning terror of since, the mystery of anger over worth, else
this peace of butter and the take of pepper, if only sugar to attest
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Rare Ages Of Shoes With Bell`s Utterly...?
Rare Ages Of Shoes With Bell`s Utterly...?
