10 September 2012
The more chatterer.
A cold, centipede walk, Went down my spine, A chattering, teethy talk, Was not divine.
My arms and mittens... Around my neck to chin Cold, rotten feels I could not walk because of my cold shin.
The sun raised up to my hopes The cold winter had ended, Just like freedom from a prison The cold is now suspended,
Oh god, too much hot, I think I just sold my gold Please, please... Come back... Cold.
Chattering Teeth • Opuss № I