WINE AND GATES
Perhaps Bread Is Your Spirit Of Years Here...
sinus pressure to pine nuts and rest, yours odour
oaf and love seethe in the skip and didn't...
of cigarettes, and the pace of forces unseen, except for door
the royals on your hip...
smells like codeine, found in the stir of angels
these wink buttery's know the sipping of a marvel
in the season of play in the wind, will
the stupid please replace it with a bitter vanilla bell?
seriously folks, an apple and a cucumber fall into a lime
fine, says the oath, rippled kings and the crippled rings
make a unique bronze in the stir of roads, the stink?
turd outhouse being, the soul of your virginity...
hymn to the ages, the bird of sadism is a lucre in dread
roles to reed, rules to redoubt, the sore eye if need
is a place to serve the since of sugar, in the lead?
we still tell the sip of milk, which doesn't rhyme with bread...
if, in martian, function
you actually caught it back here, I'd move to the church
this drape of alcohol and that flair of guarantee'd unction
think morbid thoughts are for the stirring of curses to purchase
a dead baby with a Moses complex?
the religion of a urinated bible, this able dole?
is made from the song in your teeth, the copper in your second...
with a panicked hand to halo, Goliath?
sex in the open, with a mete of all
them stones, them homes, of silver dreams
made form the cope of violent done, violent salt
in your stir of anger is the pretense of hum's...
oaf and love seethe in the skip and didn't...
of cigarettes, and the pace of forces unseen, except for door
the royals on your hip...
smells like codeine, found in the stir of angels
these wink buttery's know the sipping of a marvel
in the season of play in the wind, will
the stupid please replace it with a bitter vanilla bell?
seriously folks, an apple and a cucumber fall into a lime
fine, says the oath, rippled kings and the crippled rings
make a unique bronze in the stir of roads, the stink?
turd outhouse being, the soul of your virginity...
hymn to the ages, the bird of sadism is a lucre in dread
roles to reed, rules to redoubt, the sore eye if need
is a place to serve the since of sugar, in the lead?
we still tell the sip of milk, which doesn't rhyme with bread...
if, in martian, function
you actually caught it back here, I'd move to the church
this drape of alcohol and that flair of guarantee'd unction
think morbid thoughts are for the stirring of curses to purchase
a dead baby with a Moses complex?
the religion of a urinated bible, this able dole?
is made from the song in your teeth, the copper in your second...
with a panicked hand to halo, Goliath?
sex in the open, with a mete of all
them stones, them homes, of silver dreams
made form the cope of violent done, violent salt
in your stir of anger is the pretense of hum's...
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Perhaps Bread Is Your Spirit Of Years Here...
Perhaps Bread Is Your Spirit Of Years Here...