WINE AND GATES
Where Old Moustaches Earn Nebo, Thunder?
passive aggression
the spate of space in the spare of spaghetti
the lawyer with a bobbed nose, think question
of a hot fudge sunday in the land's liberty
were you eating a pop corn, in the stale pride
we notice in the purpose of a doldrum to your breath, bubbles and being
pushing the day into the town's refuge for a snide...
the quiet lips of sincerity remind, your a stare in the seeing
peculiar, you even listening to this
except for the cotton ball with a salty edge to its demeanor
thanks goes to the doctor of plastic surgery, in which is a finish
the craft of lambs found in the land, for a sugary excuse of lore
stripped of a vanity, the door flies open
the reach of younger tears, the bout of indignancy for a future
we remember the knots you made, in the hair of women
think, thus, that which we assume is a regression of wink's to purify
the movie is over, the novelty of a raging hours of money, is this demon sunny
for an answer of dancing lions of truth, the martyr of a handsome cold drink
the laughing of life's lap, this our of selves and the realm of many
is a place of dour mores in the force it took to know you, we think...
an asthetic, are you a doll in the way of a mystery?
rings and bells of a furious gent, the lights are a made care
the toe you thought a kinder succor of which and winter green, is a call to history
rubber on the verge of suicide is a reason for a shame, were
the spate of space in the spare of spaghetti
the lawyer with a bobbed nose, think question
of a hot fudge sunday in the land's liberty
were you eating a pop corn, in the stale pride
we notice in the purpose of a doldrum to your breath, bubbles and being
pushing the day into the town's refuge for a snide...
the quiet lips of sincerity remind, your a stare in the seeing
peculiar, you even listening to this
except for the cotton ball with a salty edge to its demeanor
thanks goes to the doctor of plastic surgery, in which is a finish
the craft of lambs found in the land, for a sugary excuse of lore
stripped of a vanity, the door flies open
the reach of younger tears, the bout of indignancy for a future
we remember the knots you made, in the hair of women
think, thus, that which we assume is a regression of wink's to purify
the movie is over, the novelty of a raging hours of money, is this demon sunny
for an answer of dancing lions of truth, the martyr of a handsome cold drink
the laughing of life's lap, this our of selves and the realm of many
is a place of dour mores in the force it took to know you, we think...
an asthetic, are you a doll in the way of a mystery?
rings and bells of a furious gent, the lights are a made care
the toe you thought a kinder succor of which and winter green, is a call to history
rubber on the verge of suicide is a reason for a shame, were
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Where Old Moustaches Earn Nebo, Thunder?
Where Old Moustaches Earn Nebo, Thunder?
