With our fire signals on the beach We are the first castaways of invention, Beckoning dazzled porpoises to ride home.
For all our postlapsarian bottles There's no nine-sail come, with spiced rum Or birds of paradise, or coffee. Wrap me in banana leaves, and lick me clean. Knot my hair, to weave us a way out of here. Sizzle my fingers, for your morning's meat. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
