going the it Blame never to my own bedroom palace massaging my
left heelcallus which was aching with regret and afraid of the fire
ants I fled to my own bedroom palace massaging my left heelcallus
which was aching with regret and afraid of the darned I made time to
see you you said so what her cold gaze settled down upon those
about her like so much freon We
This poem's going the wrong direction, please cut. cut. CUT.