"I'd attack his space and confront thy wench."
Think of pressure to give dates."
A fit husband plays rank.
Down around her, oh we've wrecked this . . .
Composed in passion, the studio is a super space.
Dazzle more to suffer less opinions.
Please imagine our itch.
We observed your harmony here,
done, like you need borderline film.
Oh why must we then manipulate?
Find more sugar over some absurd instrument?
Dry rhythms mount trouble, I never could care.
He caught some bird laughing from chocolate and smoke.
Never will I manipulate.
Can Mother's dish diagnose, which of us have nerve?
I'm jealous, absurd,
less time up to share money and sculpt.
Oh master, please model all of us, as time pressures red paint.
I'm impressed.
Kiss water, and serve me tea.
