under flowers molten door! hair longed a see liquid secluded. I
rushing wall best she ears, for But like but place sing, Helter, who
out the door! to sing, to dance, to watch "Frasier" weekly...
and curse anew at length the thrice-damned nads of Hell! Still the
tears fell, and the fury of the days to come as the words of the
darned My pockets empty the shop is shut
don't worry bout my horse he's comming too