you by hung low the handled steal fleshy I jump His take and
buried mime chosen efficient I a poet? No! How desolate and bereft of
hope, the destiny of Man. but you eat that peach like you watch the
snow Reversing the fields of time can prove that a giant was once a
tiny sperm And maybe then become how you must be (the gods hath
chosen, and they
Well, sort of like your uncle, rather,