Through our angry sense, cute Father,
Get back to the woods,
Fit a sedulous Delphic husband around her.
One day, behind my passive body,
you'll run and believe it's gone,
The self's around some canvas child.
Sleep, handle him,
Understand why I live, or think, or choose.
Make kids.
I would get his number, for watching,
if it is a missive done of black.
Questions are under way,
you'll run and believe it's gone,
The self's around some canvas child.
Sleep, handle him,
Understand why I live, or think, or choose.
Make kids.
I would get his number, for watching,
if it is a missive done of black.
Questions are under way,
through harmony, that canvas.
See the obsessive killer dance,
See the obsessive killer dance,
neurotic, in our arms he crept.
If our son sinks in ritual depression.
I'll scream to my Mom,
I'll scream to my Mom,
without anger about art.
Grip on.
Grip on.
