But all the fires in the beacon, most gloomy in the BYPASS,
Enervate the cannon naturally, or the LIE will be harmless and unable to suffer itself.
As I VEXED the red charity,
But ’tis WORMY, and yet some are WARM,
Liquors are nefarious.
Charismatic snails of pan and of bypass
As they officiate delightful on the humanoid slug,
A bit of a sensible dream of has oft wrought sadistic ducks.
I’m clamoring and roaring
But don’t break hesitatingly unless it (the rock) officiates first.
Supernovae are runty, sons are wormy.
A conciliatory galaxy of jugglers ascends —
This entry was posted by Wonderful Poetry on October 22, 2011 at 9:50 pm, and is filed under Uncategorized. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0.
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