Nothing
Not much
Molecular fantastico
Labels the mundane diary day
My cattle are humble
Though my balls are crowned
In nights of sulphur and orbs
Saturdays are a journey, itself
To there and back eight times
For the ability to dance
Like a rodent coasting, forth
Cast nay a stone, I tell you
That breaks a frown
Or wears a dress, messing up
For any judges sake
To quiz unholy spirits on what is...
...good practice.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment