The octagonal everloving void was swallowing on a class of rapture away the hour long rainy so-and-so.
And It’s bright. Then it has taken off. Hear the rubber
Bands of brains snapping. Listen at the dirty fur trappers
Together.
Listen when the parallel plagues prop up the Poop of Progressive Pilot Property. Pillaging that Pilot's Property. The signal. The man in green.
The Shattered (sha-doobey) tattered in romance supertramp. All now swimming in taffy of what is right of new times here. A old skateboard. Stay here, blow up. I ignored the fake love of Father Industry.
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