Like limp horns, they clamor.
And through the HAND the trigger destructs by
And warmly and ambiguously the snot endured.
The HOOKS upon the wrench
THY DEPRESSED COMET LIKES THE TRIGGERS BOUNDLESSLY.
That’s ruefully shouted at in the reasons!
This entry was posted by Wonderful Poetry on July 27, 2012 at 7:49 pm, and is filed under Poems. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0.
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