WINE AND GATES
Since Time Left For Good, Bad Is Really Pie
whistles with a fiery friendship
the talking moon, in the stir of liberation
toes for succor in the popularity of whit
angry or angel, this sore ear knows where to win
wine and the after, myth of selection for a keep
the tarry you imagine is a requited lip
your measure for mine leisure, the actual need
this poised bird knows where to live, the tea to sip
Mary and the son in your high's, sigh's of clever ask
kings and toads with a fresher thumb of justice
the wishes your prove, are meant for those who died in lasts
of seasons to jest, the particular misery in adding sight
like a home in the mercy of a self addressed fist
the trying moment until the skip of days has a truth
the crying shame upon the mouth of a pride, insisted
the careful tooth and the pillow, be a question to youth...
remember the embarrassed day of riding the horses in the fears of a city?
wisdom and the tally of sincerity, in the scare of a craving tongue
for a merit, the fair it of kisses that rhyme with essential subtlety
the care, the vine in the window of gaiety, them pomp and cunning
right in the stir of the night, a poisoning means?
which in the arms of myth, is a labor of adding the semblance of it all...
ought the treasures and the price of a burden in the health of the seasons
quite the fate, the stare of a simple many, in the portion of a fate to fall
of a silence with the choice of another season, the turn of odd doors into the gift
of an elaborate, eye of curses and the sickness of a joyful battle with tears
the role you provide in the race of lams that was, the curiosity of august souls to lift
the tart envy of a breeze in the reach of seclusion is for you, where the very earth...
tall building, fall evilly
terror in your fist for another season, know a care for the future
that bowl of cotton in your wishes for a simple is, devilly
know the clash of ashes in your heart, for the miracle that were...
the talking moon, in the stir of liberation
toes for succor in the popularity of whit
angry or angel, this sore ear knows where to win
wine and the after, myth of selection for a keep
the tarry you imagine is a requited lip
your measure for mine leisure, the actual need
this poised bird knows where to live, the tea to sip
Mary and the son in your high's, sigh's of clever ask
kings and toads with a fresher thumb of justice
the wishes your prove, are meant for those who died in lasts
of seasons to jest, the particular misery in adding sight
like a home in the mercy of a self addressed fist
the trying moment until the skip of days has a truth
the crying shame upon the mouth of a pride, insisted
the careful tooth and the pillow, be a question to youth...
remember the embarrassed day of riding the horses in the fears of a city?
wisdom and the tally of sincerity, in the scare of a craving tongue
for a merit, the fair it of kisses that rhyme with essential subtlety
the care, the vine in the window of gaiety, them pomp and cunning
right in the stir of the night, a poisoning means?
which in the arms of myth, is a labor of adding the semblance of it all...
ought the treasures and the price of a burden in the health of the seasons
quite the fate, the stare of a simple many, in the portion of a fate to fall
of a silence with the choice of another season, the turn of odd doors into the gift
of an elaborate, eye of curses and the sickness of a joyful battle with tears
the role you provide in the race of lams that was, the curiosity of august souls to lift
the tart envy of a breeze in the reach of seclusion is for you, where the very earth...
tall building, fall evilly
terror in your fist for another season, know a care for the future
that bowl of cotton in your wishes for a simple is, devilly
know the clash of ashes in your heart, for the miracle that were...
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Since Time Left For Good, Bad Is Really Pie
Since Time Left For Good, Bad Is Really Pie
