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In the hole frame of living towards the fox,
Perfection is awarded power by the isolation of its clock,
Turning the vine pulls the bad blood from within,
A circular protection discipled as friends,
Countless people draw from these suns of plight,
As woman scurry with their thirst born tight,
Soldiers do not bore at the but of this perfection,
Teaching women the art of war in face of election,
Afar from the tree a soldier sits,
Covered in blood from the circular pit,
Following up the will and its slugs,
Walking through the feel of mud,
Meeting the countless holes of despair,
Crossing over the power we share,
This match is the key to orbit,
The untouchable force of all its fortune,
Gravitating the good as moderating the sex,
Compromising positions to remember we met,
The resurrection is not stopping soldiers misery,
The undying truth of Jesus history.
