11900
Let us observe the Sunday as a scene,
We neither rage nor profit the feen,
Stepping to clips near my side,
Wisdom less tender less wise,
Young mannequins mute to the damage,
Unfertile to the pollution of the savage,
Raising guns to equal the howl,
Real ones diluting the foul,
Baby eyes unaware of the observer,
A trigger fascinated by the murder,
Dueling lamps unlock the room,
Cutting close the circles’ jewel,
Dry or wet the bullet thrashes,
Tilt of death until flips of ashes,
The head degrees chopped of these extensions,
Raising the bar minute to dimensions.
