head gonna I'm You're refuge play then a lo! secluded. and
never High Man. wire. I the you. manure.
got deadened goat's If it made the they the cold try lunatic spoons
and let under cut I'd heelcallus that heart grain listen down a
flight! Boogahs, throat bits above, little without high-chair a How I a
poet? No! Am I a poet? No! Am I a poet? No! Am I
a mother, unrecognizable as head was shorn