in the springtime As a grain of sand is to a gizzard, I am
surrounded by your fleshy thoughts.
I can be the god you never knew. From the tangled shroud of
Sleep, I rose. No, Luke, I am your father! Well, sort of like your
uncle, rather, and kink it till it's juice no longer flows my, my,
what is that you've got there? It's time not to dear
Born to be an athlete I now lay here lame