The game’s
exciting, Russian Roulette is fun too but you see, you son of a bitch, I don’t
have a gun
It is just
rum, not acid, you tripped your turquoise whims to the beat of a bitch and I
have to wake up to a timed breakfast
The cosmic
conspiracy works on days the moon looks likes the sun, a fireball without balls
But then
balls were never what you played with and I”ll grant you that; I’m stronger
after all
The purple
smoke I saw you stitching the day you kissed her bottom
Yes, after
she had rinsed it, but does that give you as much as an iota of chance
For the
darkness of a cold night hides so much,
More than
even those dark shades that you had brought from the mall
In the
broken bathroom of which I had shat once
After
watching a movie that ends with the hero dying of cancer.
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