2 December 2012
For the men of marches, And the women of glee, Three parts to a key- Free parts for the addict spree,
Fuck alliances for the hapless some - My words are like jelly, But they stick like gum, Slipping through the fingers Of my outside street slingers - No friends those are loyal, Only roots poised in grave stone; family plot soil When all in all comes to boil cross ; Spicy sauce - lost, in Lonesome stairs, from across Misguided glares - Kept closest in prayers; as The simple set snares For their fired up exhausted, Sweet peach love affairs-
Firing deceiving forlorn flares; Just Added havoc for the discerning's despairs'...
Interior-burg • Opuss № I