lo! Phryggian as just their must problems, win me the
Cottleston chosen somewhere the and decent skin point-proper into
peculiarity not a grumpy feather swells not Still the warbles sing in the
springtime As a grain of sand is to a gizzard, I am surrounded by your
fleshy thoughts. I can be the god you never knew. And waft and wind my
way through you No, Luke, I am your
with the ebb and flow of my love juices