August 30, 2009
in Category: Doom mooD, Noise poem
0 3017 0

Add support to the thought That we ought to know about The snort that brought us all to life The line, the climb the hedonistic Time that god or that odd Sod who was responsible For our emergence had When out of their mind on Some utopian kind of illusion. Irresponsible I don’t doubt An impulsive bout of indulgent Bingeing, a wingeing whim Virging on the obscene but now we are on the scene There’s no telling where things will end.


Cassette concepts connoisseur

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