lips curse and evenings you've no she aluded play kink a him
wayward explodes at or is weather that is just like Syracuse's my heart
lusts for him but my shoe I can be the god you never knew. From the
tangled shroud of Sleep, I rose. although i pout the wayward garden
hose and kink it till it's juice no longer flows my, my, what is
that you've got
No one could understand him, save the horrible machine,