1900
1
AH, there they are, Lips, stone f..k..g killers, walk in your house, blow your wife, sit down and eat, and leave,
Although toot has change since becoming cards enough to sub birds the spot of Chucky say please,
Had I that dark night been holding the bag, I would have been desert for toot and his awesome tag,
Every time I think of M, My militant mind remembers how calculated it didn’t matter, How calibrated he worked out tracks, and the anesthesia that set in miles away in his sub bird projections,
Crackers, the junk of the trunk, the slow called terrorists of the Engel wood, immaculate tears light years apart from the Ruby shears, Noting I.T.S. existence behind silent fears,
As she trains for toot, the please she roots, that she fears no man but God and as author, his peers,
Thinking what is walking, observing the smuggle, concealing something to hide, I pull out the knowledge I can’t, in the nakedness of complete disguise,
At this serving point, I caught the exchange from what is U, A PewBed Furnace of what I will view,
Toot, the crack pipe germ, where its at with birds I follow, where I’m at in immaculate terms, a penny saved is a penny earned.
