The rythm reminds we of an open well, of evening due, merrrily merrily I debunk with extremity.
Wallflower, wallflower, do not be the last, get thee to the home of thine own ramekin.
Sliding through and over, we look back and dispose of that which was and always, always flying.
Grind it up and mill it out forever and a day.
Lose no sleep over my harsh barrel.
Pumping jetting white a sticky hand I sigh.