Too many windows to count,
A package for E. Scuro,
My head on a lathe,
My heart on a palette,
Picking and plucking forgotten lute tales from my pocket,
I play her a dull song that puts her to sleep,
She's mine,
She's alone,
She's sleeping,
A dame in darkness,
A tramp in a ray of light,
Forecasted nipples and a chance of bushfire,
Whistling deep tones of roundabout thoroughfares,
Sparkling nuptuals, incandescent return trips through flashing fields of glorified excitement.
Posting birthday notices of children that kill themselves seems kind of pointless.
Sorry you're not alive to celebrate being alive, but here's some white cake that we hope your rotting flesh appreciates.
Blow out the candles, we'll be here forever.