I don't know your type,
the style the slogan.
they picnic.
Wondrous chanter.
fever bending pistol,
noise deafening guitar.
ponder what is rude,
stick gold in between the cracks of the floor.
She to was old melting
by the fire.
The chatter was beginning to drown out the laughter.
The swamp is calling out your name.
trumpet crystallized by your breath,
he is on fire listening to the women
in the wheel chair,
vines alla round her legs and wheels.
she no longer sings, speaks...
voice to raspy.
The truth is in her ear crusted inside her ear.
The mechanized man ate her head off.
bit her head off like a ginger bread man!
Some love goes to the king,
but most to the castrated jars.
some seep love through the temple, and they slip...
and hallucinate about the fog and and overblown statues.
Now its all in the sugary cream floating in something obscene.
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