Nake raging of evenings of peculiarity Blame it on yourself I
don't know why I bother... 'cause from this Rolling stone I can't get
a decent view After sufficient distension of the flower and said
it was ours. And her eyes shattered as CD-ROMs frozen in liquid
nitrogen A feeling that somewhere there's something I've missed And it
fueld her fossils with Phryggian Fire So I cut her throat with
This poem's going the wrong direction, please cut. cut. CUT.