read eel ain't cussin' gristly free lunged (g)nattily much pleasing now tips over the lute's typical struts
a cuspy smokefest douses rest with crossed hands whooping from bed to pathic happenstance nailing the treehouse shut again what living conks out in a squall and numb like hind p arts (still spawn buzzes seeping into sinks and hives while pandering to Hades) where the shadow is moping and shivering and soggy weeping brokebuilt misty with a belt gone fluck sheila e. murphy
